Jigsaw
by Burked And Mossley
Summary: GS The Angel of Death is stalking the women in Grissom's life. Completed.
1. The Proof is in the Puddin'

**Title:** Jigsaw  


**Author: **Burked and Mossley  


**Rating:** PG-13, just to be safe  


**Disclaimers: **We have no rights to CSI. It belongs to CBS, Alliance Atlantis, Anthony Zuicker and any number of persons and entities other than us.  


**A/N: **This story is the second part of a two-parter begun with Burked's "_To Sleep, Perchance to Dream_." A little of this fic may not be clear if you haven't read it, but it's not critical.   


* * * * *  


_"I'm tired of playing games with you, Gil Grissom. I think it's time I show you just how serious I am." Angela Wyeth, the Angel of Death, "To Sleep, Perchance to Dream"  
_

Chairs flew every direction as the four CSIs and their supervisor, Gil Grissom, bolted from the break room at the sound of a series of blood-curdling screams. The terror was evident in the high-pitched screeching coming from the front part of the building.  


Scared and curious faces gathered at the doors to the labs as all the technicians tried to see what was happening. Grissom shouted at them to get back, not only to clear the hallways, but for their own protection, not knowing what might await them.  


Brass met up with them at the junction of two corridors, his weapon drawn and held towards the ceiling. Barking at the CSIs to let him go first, Brass slowed when he got to the receptionist's desk, scanning everywhere for the cause of Judy's alarm.  


Grissom and Brass slowly walked up to her desk, which she had abandoned, pressing herself back against the wall behind it, staring in stark terror at the desk that was partially hidden by a short cubicle wall.  


"What is it, Judy?" Brass asked, taking another moment to quickly scan the approaches to the area.  


She was completely unable to utter whole words, stammering and gasping, as she pointed down to the desk.  


Grissom rounded the short cubicle wall, his eyes immediately drawn to an opened box, still sitting on the brown shipping paper that Judy had apparently carefully removed. Inside the plain cardboard container was a gallon-sized plastic ziplock bag – the kind commonly used to store food.   


Blood obscured much of the view into the bag, but it obviously contained an organ of some sort, its dark skin kissing against the plastic in places.  


"Who's got a glove?" Grissom snapped, looking around quickly. Eight hands began digging and patting at pockets. Nick was the only one already wearing his vest, and was the first to find one, handing it over to Grissom.  


Snapping it on in one fluid motion, he grasped the bag just below the ziplock, figuring that the top would be the most likely place for prints. He lifted the bag to get a better view, giving the other CSIs their first decent look at it.  


Judy threw a clammy palm over her mouth, squelching another peal, and began to gag. Her terrified eyes avoided the bag, instead seeking reassurance from her co-workers, but finding none as they all were mesmerized by the object of her revulsion.  


"Wha ... What ... is that?" she choked out between waves of nausea.  


"It would appear to be a human heart," Grissom said, cocking his head and turning the bag around.  


"Oh my God!" Judy gasped, turning to bolt towards the ladies room.  


"Sara," Grissom called, jerking his head towards the direction Judy had run.  


"I'll go talk to her," Sara answered, knowing that this was no doubt the first time that Judy had come face-to-face with the sort of gore they dealt with almost daily.  


"This could be quite a time-saver. Just mail the bodies in," Brass joked, though his face was anything but jovial.  


Setting the bag gingerly back in the box, Grissom slid out the brown wrapping paper from underneath it, turning it over to see the front. It was sent to the lab in general, the machine-printed label giving up no immediate clues.   


The return address said it was from the _Journal of Forensic Sciences_, but the postmark was Las Vegas instead of West Conshohocken, Pennsylvania, where the journal is published. The postage showed it was sent USPS overnight express, using postage that could be purchased out of machines at any post office.  


The Medical Examiner made his way through the burgeoning crowd, having already heard through the grapevine that there was something that would interest him at the reception desk.  


Looking up at the clock instinctively to note the time, Robbins stated the obvious as he pulled on a set of latex gloves. "Based on my many years of vast medical experience, I'd venture that this person is dead." He took the bag from the box to take a closer look, holding it carefully midway down.  


"Ya think?" Catherine quipped.   


"Nick, get the wrapping to Questioned Documents right away. Tell Ronnie it's hot, to push everything else aside. Have Jacqui go to QD to work with Ronnie. I don't want any possible prints compromised."  


"Will do," Nick answered, picking up the paper with a gloved hand, barking at the crowd to part as he headed for his destination. The paper could eventually get passed to Greg to search for epithelials, and the last thing he needed would be DNA donations from half the lab.  


"Catherine," Grissom said, handing her the assignment slips for the morning. "Sara and I will work the heart. You three cover the rest."  


"Sure," she said, mindful of standing in a crowd of onlookers. "Can I talk to you a second?" she asked, nodding towards the locker room.  


Once the locker room door was closed, Catherine glanced around quickly to ensure they were alone.   


"Gil, are you sure Sara should work with you on this one?"  


"Why shouldn't she work with me?" he asked. They hadn't worked together in over a week, not since he had first spent the day at Sara's house, finally giving in to his obsession with her. He had a little difficulty at first adjusting to working around her, but he had just begun to overcome that.  


"That's not what I mean," Catherine said, sensing his discomfort. "I mean, she's pretty much just recovered from the effects of sleep deprivation and being poisoned with psilocybin. This case strikes me as the type that could take a while. You know her. She could get too wrapped up in it. Maybe her load should be lighter for a few more days."  


"I'll keep an eye on her," he promised, averting his gaze, hoping to not give away the fact that he had been keeping a very close eye on her for a week, almost twenty-four hours a day, as a matter of fact.  


"So, you guys getting anything worked out?" Catherine asked, lowering her voice slightly, despite the emptiness of the room.  


"I'm trying to be a more attentive supervisor," Grissom said evenly.  


"That's not what I'm talking about," Catherine said, shaking her head.  


"Oh. Well, I'm also trying to be a more attentive friend," he ventured, hoping to deter Catherine from further prying.  


"That's closer," she nodded, laughing softly at his reticence. "Gil ..."  


"Catherine, you've got a lot of cases to get started tonight. I've got a disembodied heart, and a secretary who could probably use a shot of thorazine. We'll need to continue this conversation some other time," he said, reaching around her for the door.  


"Just checking on _your_ heart," she said gently, moving back from the door.  


"My heart's fine," he assured her, giving her a small smile.   


* * * * *  


It was hard work, for the second time in as many days, but she'd never been one to avoid effort. While she had lived in Las Vegas for the past few years, she hadn't been raised a city slicker like so many of the people she saw here. Most of them had never seen a callous, much less developed any.   


_Soft and weak. They'd never survive if they didn't have a grocery store on every corner. Paying other people to raise and kill their food. No way they'd have the discipline to butcher their own meat. They wouldn't know how to do for themselves or go without. Weaklings.  
_

Her gloved hands sticky with blood, she pushed her hair out of her eyes with the inside of her arm, giving up as it fell back into her face. She had been anxious to get this chore done and had uncharacteristically forgotten to put her hair up. She wouldn't make that mistake again. She never made a mistake twice, if at all humanly possible.  


Rinsing the blood from each part of the carcass wasn't just to make it more presentable, but to allow a thin coat of ice to form around it, protecting it further as she slipped each piece into a separate bag before stacking it neatly in the chest freezer.   


_That's two carcasses. A full chest freezer. They should last a while, if I pace myself.   
_

She meticulously cleaned the food preparation area and butcher block, putting the cleaver and knives in the dishwasher after rinsing them in hot water to remove the blood. Even though the dishwasher would do the same thing, she didn't like the idea of all that blood circulating over the other dishes.  


She removed the blade from the jigsaw, also rinsing it and putting it with the other sharps in the dishwasher. She reminded herself to take it out immediately after the wash was done, to dry it before it had a chance to rust.  


Unplugging the power tool, she meticulously cleaned the outside. Sometimes it would come in contact with the meat she was butchering, and she hated the idea that it might not be perfectly clean. Even so, she knew she would wipe it down once again before she used it the next time.   


_You can't be too careful.   
_

* * * * *  


"Judy? You okay?" Sara asked sympathetically as she approached the secretary. Judy was everything Sara wasn't, by all appearances, being almost a foot shorter, but weighing about the same as Sara. Her blonde hair was wet around the edges from splashing water onto her face, her glasses sitting on the counter.  


She was wiping off her running mascara with a damp paper towel, sniffing and occasionally stopping to blow her nose. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and still showed the horror she'd felt when she first opened the box.  


"Um, I, I guess so," she stammered, offering a weak smile at Sara's reflection in the mirror.   


"I've never ... never seen ..."  


"I know. The first time can be pretty gross," Sara said, smiling at Judy in the mirror.  


"I hope there's never a second time," Judy sputtered. "I know it sounds stupid. I mean, when I tell people I work here, they think I see this stuff all the time. But I never have."  


"I know you want to just put it all out of your mind, but I need you to tell me everything you remember. Okay?" Sara asked gently.  


"Sure. Okay."  


"Did the package come with the other mail? Or did it come separately?"  


"It was in our mail bin from this afternoon's mail, so I don't know for sure," Judy answered.  


"But no one brought it in separately?"  


"No."  


"Okay. I noticed that you unwrapped it very carefully. Why is that?" Sara asked, wondering if she'd been suspicious for some reason.  


"I always do that. Especially at Christmas," she said, an embarrassed grin pulling at her lips for a moment. "I don't make much money, so I save paper if it's any good, and reuse it. So now it's a habit to do that all the time."  


"That's smart," Sara said. "I wish I could do that, but I'm too impatient. I always just tear into everything." She didn't want Judy to think that she thought that it was silly or miserly just because she was frugal.  


Seeing Judy staring at herself in the mirror, recognizing the faraway gaze, Sara stepped closer and put her hand on Judy's shoulder.  


"Judy, it'll get better, I promise. But you might want to talk to Dr. Kane if it keeps bothering you."  


"I ... I ... don't know if ... if I should be working here," Judy said, dropping her eyes, then quickly snatching up her glasses, pushing them back on her face.  


"I hear you. But you've been here for a couple of years, and this is the first – and hopefully last – time this has happened. Just don't open any packages for a while, no matter who they're from. Just set them aside and I'll open them for you."  


"Really? That would make me feel better," Judy said gratefully. "The package said it was from one of the journals we get all the time. I just thought it was this quarter's journals to distribute. I didn't even think about how we already got them in October. That's pretty dumb, huh?"  


"Judy, you shouldn't feel bad about that. How were you supposed to know? You were just doing your job." Thinking for a moment how Judy must feel, and remembering those times when she'd felt much the same, Sara lightly rubbed her shoulder.   


"You do a good job, Judy. If you decide to leave, I'll understand. But we'd all miss you. I hope you decide to stay, even if that's selfish of me." Sara hoped it sounded more sincere than "The lab needs you" had sounded to her.  


"Thanks, Sara."  


"Come on. Let's go get some coffee," Sara said, returning the smile. "Take a few deep breaths. That's it. We're strong women. We're good at our jobs. We're not going to let some sicko ruin our day, right?"  


"Right," Judy returned, feeling her own bravado swell, fed with Sara's natural courage.   


* * * * *   


"Sheriff Atwater. Detective Vega." Grissom greeted both men with a hint of rancor as Sara silently took a seat directly across from the Sheriff. Vega stood uncomfortably behind the desk, to the side of Atwater, obviously enjoying neither the proximity nor the association.  


"Dr. Grissom. CSI Sidle," Atwater returned with a practiced political smile that conveyed no warmth.  


"Can we get through this quickly? Sara and I are on a case - a murder. It's hot right now, and we can't afford to waste any time."  


"I would hardly consider this a waste, unless you have no interest in CSI Sidle's career," Atwater retorted pointedly.  


"I assume this is about Buddy Rodgers," Sara said, looking first at the Sheriff, then at the detective, who smiled briefly in apology.  


"Yes. Detective Vega has submitted all the evidence to the District Attorney's office for disposition. The DA has opted not to pursue an indictment at this time, due to the ambiguity of the evidence."  


Sara nodded, thinking that anything she said could be misconstrued.  


"Good. Is that all?" Grissom said, rising to leave.  


"Almost," Atwater said with his annoying smile still plastered to his face. "We all know there is no statute of limitations on murder. And if CSI Sidle's alleged involvement hits the media ... well, let's just say we don't need the added attention. I would need to mitigate that."  


"Is that some form of threat?" Grissom asked angrily.   


"Can you prove that Sidle's not involved?" Atwater asked, looking at each, then turning to Vega.  


"It's not our job to prove she's not involved. It's the DA's job to prove she is," Grissom answered.  


"Either way, if she's indicted, she'll be released from CSI, regardless of the eventual outcome."  


"I'm well aware of that," Sara said with a hint of nervousness.  


"I suggest you find a way out of this, and quickly," Atwater said ominously.   


Sara could certainly understand why no one convicted of a crime could continue to work at the crime lab. But the entire legal system was based on the inviolable premise that the accused is innocent until proven guilty. She never understood why any CSI would be fired for merely being accused of a crime.   


She would have accepted being suspended pending the outcome of the investigation or the trial, should it come to that. But termination based solely on the accusation seemed to run counter to everything they worked for.  


Another thought came to mind, but she fought it, deeming it to be petty, though truthful: she wondered how Catherine came to be made of Teflon. No matter what she did, nothing ever stuck. Sara had done nothing wrong, but stood in danger of losing her job.  


Their walk back to the lab was silent, with each digesting the meeting and their reactions to it. She followed him into his office, and he uncharacteristically closed the door behind her. They had been careful to always leave it open the past week, to allay any suspicions.  


"You okay?" he asked gently, stroking her from elbow to shoulder.  


"Yeah, sure," she lied. "It'll all work out," she said confidently, though she felt anything but.  


"Let's go home. I don't mind missing sleep for work, or to be with you, but I hate missing it for some self-serving political asshole."  


"Don't hold back. Tell me what you really think of him," Sara teased.  


"I think he's a snake, and that we better keep an eye on him."  


"I doubt he'll wait until I'm indicted to get rid of me. I get the feeling that he's itching to distance himself and the department from me as soon as possible."  


"We'll fight him every step of the way," Grissom promised.  


"We? You should steer clear of it, Grissom, or else you might lose your job, too," she said heavily.  


"Sara ..." Grissom took a moment to gather his thoughts and his courage. "... what will you do if you can't work here anymore?"  


"I refuse to consider that."  


"You may have to."  


"I don't know, Grissom. I really don't. I guess I'd have to move. It's not like there're a lot of other labs in the area."  


Grissom nodded silently, unwilling or unable to put his thoughts and feelings into words.  


"Grissom ..." Sara began hesitantly. "If I had to move, what would you do?"  


"I know we've only been together a week, but it seems longer. I don't want to ... I can't even think about ..."  


"Would you come with me?" she asked fearfully, her voice wavering.  


"What other choice would I have?" he asked in answer.   


* * * * *  


"Hello, puddin'. How's my baby? Here come your sisters."  


The single, 38-year-old woman smiled at the three fluffy cats that curled around her ankles. Their purrs reverberated in the small room, adding to the quaintness of the cozy kitchen.   


"Your din-din will be ready in a minute," she called out sweetly, as she turned back to the pot on the stove. They were such good companions, her only friends for far too long.  


Normally, she didn't give them treats. It wasn't good for them, and she couldn't bear the thought of something happening to her charges. But tonight was a special night, and she was going to include her loves in the celebration.  


After so many years of being alone, she was finally on her way to happiness. It wouldn't be long before the wedding. She'd already seen the printer about the invitations and was interviewing photographers next week.  


She never expected to find her true love in this den of iniquity, but he had been one of the first men she'd met. It was clear to both of them immediately that they had found their soulmates.   


They hadn't talked about children, but the possibility existed. Her own mother had been 42 when she had been born. She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge that thought.   


Now wasn't the time to bring up unpleasant memories. The time for sadness was nearly over. She only had to make it for a few more days.  


Las Vegas had been a terrible city in which to be a woman alone. It wasn't safe. But she was used to being a loner. As an intelligent woman, men found her threatening. It had taken her a long time to find a man who appreciated her brains, rather than feared them.   


No, soon everything would be wonderful. Nothing bad could happen to her ever again.  


"Oh, be patient," she said with mock-severity when one of the cats began pawing her leg. "Silly cat."  


Taking down several plates, she began dishing out the cooked meat. It really was an extravagance for the cats, but it would have gone bad before she found another use for it.  


_Waste not, want not_.  


She paused long enough to watch her loves dive into their treat. Taking the remaining plates, she headed towards the patio door. Already, the local strays had gathered. Usually, she put down dry food for them, but tonight they were part of the extended celebration.  


It was a silly thing, she knew, but she couldn't bear the thought of the poor animals starving. So many people assumed an animal could survive on its own, when, in truth, many creatures died slow and painful deaths from starvation.  


She walked around the perimeter of the patio, placing down the offerings to her adopted "children". A noise from the alleyway caused her to start. It was a moonless night. There was no telling what kind of maniac could be out there.  


There weren't any truly safe neighborhoods in Las Vegas. Drunks and derelicts, petty criminals, homeless people and homicidal terrors all mingled together throughout the city. She had a gun for safety, but she had left it inside.  


She chuckled lightly as a mangy-looking dog wandered into the light from the kitchen. For the past two weeks, she'd been trying to befriend the poor creature, but he'd kept his distance. The smell of tonight's treat had finally brought him into the open.  


Seeing that the poor thing was frightened, she walked down the dark alleyway. In time, he'd come to trust her – they all did, eventually. She placed the last plate down, for him to enjoy by himself. There was plenty to go around, after all.  


Who knew the human body contained so much viscera?  


* * * * *  
  



	2. Home is Where the Hearts Are

Jigsaw, Chapter 2:  "Home is Where the Hearts Are" 

"I haven't seen you since you got back.  I'm glad you're feeling better," David said with a nervous smile as Sara entered the morgue just after eleven that night.

"Thanks, David.  It's good to be back."

"You here for Grissom's heart?" he asked.

At Sara's raised eyebrow, David realized the awkwardness of his question.

"I mean, the heart that Grissom gave to Doc."

"Yeah.  Grissom will be here in a second.  The secretaries are getting better at tracking him down, and one has him cornered, making him sign some purchase orders."

"I don't mind paperwork," David said confidently.  "I find it to be a relaxing diversion.  And, of course, it's essential for everything to be properly documented."

"Of course," Sara said, smiling.

"Sara, if you're through flirting with my assistant, I need him to give Mr. Robeson a wash," Doc Robbins teased as he hobbled in.

"Kill-joy," she teased back.

"You here about the heart?"

"Yes.  Grissom will be here in a ... oh, here he is," she said as the doors burst open.

Grissom was frowning and murmuring as he stormed in.

"I need a clone to do nothing but sign crap all morning long so I can get some real work done," Grissom groused. 

"Heavy is the crown," Robbins jibed.

"Okay, Albert, you've had long enough with the heart.  What do you know about it?"

"Let's see," he said, flipping open the file, even though it was doubtful that there was anything in it that he couldn't relate off the top of his head.  

"I think it is a female, probably near middle age, judging by size and the extent of atherosclerosis.  No cardiac abnormalities.  Histology doesn't reveal anything other than the fact that the heart had been frozen."

"Frozen," Sara repeated.

"Which explains the lack of decomposition during its time in the mail."

"One day," Grissom added.

"Yes, but one day in Las Vegas heat in a plastic bag could have been very unpleasant.  Instead, the heart was relatively fresh."

"Did you send DNA to Greg?"

"Yes, and blood samples from what was still in the chambers."

"There was still blood in the heart?" Sara asked.

"Yes, apparently the heart was removed, but not drained.  It appears to have been bagged and immediately frozen.  The blood in the bag was diluted, but there was still plenty of it in the chambers."

"Diluted with what?" Grissom asked.

"Water.  Maybe it was packed in a few ice cubes.  Or it may have been frozen wet."

"So the psycho wanted us to receive it in pretty good shape," Sara noted.

"Evidently," Grissom agreed.  "Which means that the killer wants us to be able to determine who the victim is."

"Which means that the identity of the victim has some significance for the killer," Sara said, following his train of thought.

"Yes, which also means that this probably isn't the last we'll hear from this guy."

* * * * *

_That damned whore!_

She slammed her hand into the dashboard of her SUV, swearing angrily as Sara and Grissom left the lab together.  Their discrete nods as they headed towards their respective vehicles didn't escape her notice.

You think you're so smart.  Harvard!  Like that's any accomplishment.  The grade inflation there is famous.  All Mommy and Daddy had to do was write a check to get you in.  It's not like you ever had to work.

She'd spent considerable time and effort ensuring that all the pieces of her well-crafted puzzle arrived in the right sequence, and to the right location.  Things had to follow, or the pattern would be destroyed. 

They were messing up her plan. Well, the whore was.  It wasn't Gil's fault.  He would never treat her so disrespectfully.  It was the influence of that bag-of-bones brunette, she realized with a sad sigh.

_I know you're lonely, Gil, but the whore's using you.  Can't you see that?  You're a step for her to use on her way up.  Once she has what she needs from you, she'll abandon you. _

I won't.  My love for you is pure.  Why else have we both been alone for so long?  We were waiting for fate to bring us together.  I remember that first night we met.  The sparks flew immediately, and I knew you were the one.  Patience, my love.  If you had only waited a little while longer.

She waited until the two vehicles left the crime lab parking lot before putting her own SUV in gear.  Maybe they would go their separate ways.  The harlot needed to go to her apartment, and soon.  After a few blocks, it became clear the two CSIs were heading towards the same destination.

Damn her!  She's messing with his head – both of his heads!  If she ruins this plan, I'll make her pay dearly.

The Angel of Death chuckled mirthfully.  The whore was going to pay anyway.  She was dangerous to Gil.  The poor man was in over his head; she was using his own hormones against him, making him behave in a way that was contrary to his nature. 

Why else was he smiling like a fool as that tramp got out of her car and into his, once they had reached his townhouse?  Where were they going now?  Surely he's not going to take that slut out in public!

_Precious Gil, don't you realize a man is known by the company he keeps?  I won't let her hurt you.  I won't let anyone ever hurt you again._

* * * * *

"What's this?" Grissom asked as they approached Sara's apartment door.

"I don't know.  I don't remember ordering anything lately.  See who it's from," she answered, unlocking the door.

"Mushroom Mania, it says.  You didn't order more psychedelic mushrooms, did you?" Grissom laughed.

"No!  I'm almost afraid to eat the button mushrooms from the grocery store now.  I keep imagining I'm getting flashbacks, and then feel an overwhelming desire to listen to Pink Floyd.  Why don't you open it for me while I gather up some clothes?  I've got to do some laundry soon or I'll have to go to work naked."

"That could be distracting," Grissom mused, pulling out his pocketknife to slit the packing tape.  "You can do your laundry at my house, you know.  I do have a washer and dryer.  All the modern conveniences."

"Really?  I've never seen anything but the bedroom," she teased. 

"Well, all the good stuff happens there, so you're not missing much," he said.  "Maybe we should wait and open this at the lab.  It could be contaminated as well."

"I doubt that.  They're probably just replacing the other kit," she offered.  "After you called and raised so much hell over the psilocybe mushrooms, I wouldn't be surprised."

"I didn't raise hell.  I merely requested that they provide me with all the data regarding their quality control."

"You have a way of 'requesting' that sounds amazingly like raising hell," she teased.  

Grissom huffed, as he pulled a styrofoam container out of the box.  "Did the other kit come in styrofoam to keep it cool?" he asked, slicing through the tape that secured the top of the container.

"No.  Definitely not," she said, her curiosity overwhelming her.  He'd set the styrofoam box on the breakfast counter to open it.  Sara came up behind him, peeking over his shoulder.

"Did you by any chance order a brain?" he asked, peering down into the box.

"I'll get some gloves," she said, dropping an armful of clothes.  "Here," she said, handing him a pair.

Pulling on both gloves, Grissom slowly lifted the freezer bag holding a graying brain.  There was a two-inch puddle of water in the bottom of the box, obviously from melted ice.

"Wonder how long it's been out there," Sara mused.  "I haven't been home in a couple of days."

"Postmarked two days ago, so probably just one day," Grissom surmised.  "Got a grocery sack I can put these in?"

"You're kidding, right?  But I've got a trash bag," she said, popping the bag open with a flick of her hands.

"A heart.  Then a brain.  Is he just sending random organs?  Or is there a message there?" Grissom wondered aloud.

"What I want to know is why he sent it to me," she said.

Grissom had been so entranced by the organ that he had forgotten where they were.  He whipped his head around to look at her worriedly, then instinctively began to scan the small apartment.  

"Call it in," he said, slowly easing towards the only room not visible, the bathroom.  

"Wait for the cops," she said, reaching out to grasp his arm.  "Or I'll tell your boss," she quipped to break the tension.  

Sara soothingly stroked his arm as she relayed the information to Brass, never taking her eyes off Grissom.  He was clearly upset, and pulled away from her to check out the closet and bathroom before she could stop him.

"Brass is sending over some uniforms.  Says they'll be here in a minute.  He'll be here in 10."

"Good.  Sara, I don't want you coming here by yourself any more until this is over.  It's not safe.  He obviously knows where you live and something about you.  What does it tell us that he used Mushroom Mania as a return address?"

"You're right!  So maybe this guy is the one who messed with my mushroom kit," Sara deduced.

"It would seem so.  Can you think of anyone, anyone at all, who might have it in for you?" he asked.  

"Enough to send me body parts?  Not to mention sending me on a couple of psychedelic trips.  No, I can't think of anyone."

"Have you met anyone new lately?  Has anyone asked you out recently that you've turned down?"  Even asking the questions sent a brief wave of jealousy coursing through Grissom, despite the fact that she had obviously chosen to spend her time with him.

"No.  Not other than Greg.  And this doesn't seem like his style," she said, hoping Grissom hadn't thought she meant to implicate Greg.

Grissom answered his cell phone and exhaled deeply.  

"Okay.  I'll be there in a few minutes."

"What's going on?" Sara asked, seeing the concern and conflict in Grissom's eyes.

"A leg just appeared at the lab.  Wasn't mailed this time, but was left in a clear plastic sheet in the parking log."

"You better go have a look.  I'll wait for Brass."

"I don't want to leave you alone here.  It's not safe."

"Grissom, have you thought this through?  What are you going to tell them you were doing here in the first place?  You better cut out before the cops get here."

"I'm not leaving you here alone.  You can tell them you called me," Grissom said firmly.

"And you got here before the cops did?"

"I happened to be in the neighborhood," he ventured.

"In _this_ neighborhood?  What were you doing, slumming?"

"I was on my way home from the lab."

"You live the other direction," Sara laughed.

"Nothing escapes your razor-sharp intellect," he huffed.

"They should be here any minute.  Just go.  I'll lock the door.  I'll be fine," she said, incredulous that he thought she needed his protection.

"You better be, or I'm going to be really pissed ... at both of us," he added.

"Go, damn it!" she laughed, pushing him out her door.  

"There's not much use in my leaving," he said, a flash of reality hitting him squarely between the eyes.  "My fingerprints are all over the box and the styrofoam."

"Shit.  Some hot-shot criminalists we are!  Still, there's no reason for you to wait around here.  I can hold down the fort until the cops get here.  I'm not some helpless female."

Giving in to her, Grissom stood on the porch until he heard the deadbolt slip into place.  It went against every instinct he felt to leave, but he knew it was a battle he couldn't win with her.  But he wasn't beyond fighting a little dirty.  

Looking around, he located a spot in the courtyard that he could see from her porch.  He made his way down quickly, watching her door from his vantage point until he saw a police cruiser pull up front.  Smiling, he circled around to the parking lot, pulling out just as Sara was opening the door for the officers.

* * * * *

_Damn it, Gil!  Do you have any idea what you are doing?  What danger she's put you in?_

The Angel of Death shook her head sadly as she sipped her coffee.  The slut was going to get him in trouble.  As supervisor, he'd be the one punished when their affair became public knowledge.  He had to know that, but there he is, watching her apartment. 

Did he really think that skinny bitch would stand up for him?

Hell, the whore will probably claim she was sexually harassed.  That he made her do it to keep her job.  Her career would be intact, and she'd get a nice cash settlement from the lab to keep it quiet.  They'd probably fast-track her for promotion to keep her happy and out of court.

Well, dead women tell no tales.

She turned her head to watch as Grissom got in his car and drove away.  Letting out a disappointed sigh, she pulled into traffic behind him.  He was acting so typically male, as if his intellect couldn't overrule his hormones.

_It's not his fault.  The whore's preying on his loneliness, his weaknesses.  I'll have to get rid of her before she really blows this.  Don't worry, my love.  I'll take care of it.  I'll take care of everything._

* * * * *

"I'm told this may belong to you," Dr. Telgenhoff, the day-shift medical examiner said to Grissom as he blew through the morgue doors.

"Not me personally," Grissom answered in mock-seriousness.

"So you _don't_ have a third leg," Telgenhoff said, an eyebrow raised.

"Not literally," Grissom laughed.  "And I'm not missing the one I've got."

"I heard you guys got a heart last night.  Did someone realize none of you had one?"

"You should take your act on the road," Grissom said distractedly as he began to examine the severed leg.

"Well, what we have here is an obviously female left leg.  By the looks of her, she's relatively young, probably in her late 30s or early 40s.  Decent shape, but not a runner or anything like that."

"You went to medical school to learn that?" Grissom teased.  "My A/V tech could have told us that with one look."

"Well, tell him to bust it down here, then, 'cause I'm ass-deep in bodies.  I could use the help."

"Was it frozen?" Grissom asked, guiding them back on track.

"Not all the way through;  the outside had been, but not the inside."

"Like it wasn't in the freezer long enough to freeze all the way through.  That's interesting.  The heart last night had been frozen."

"The leg is too thick to freeze very quickly.  Guess he was in a hurry to get it to you.  Good thing someone found it pretty quickly.  There's virtually no decomposition."

"Where's the plastic it was in?" Grissom asked, looking around.

"Sent it to Trace," the coroner answered.

"Damn.  I'd rather my people work it."

"You should put out a memo stating that all random body parts belong to graveyard.  I'm sure no one will mind shirking the work," Telgenhoff laughed.

"Like you would read a memo," Grissom grumbled on his way out.

"Like you would write one," Telgenhoff shouted back over his shoulder.

* * * * *

He had too many irons in the fire, and he knew it.  A few weeks ago he would have sworn that dating Sara would have complicated things even more.  But in only a little over a week, he'd come to realize that she helped him in ways he could never have imagined.  He hadn't thought about how much energy he had been devoting to fighting his feelings.  

Sometimes they talked.  Sometimes they made love.  Sometimes they lay tangled on the couch, watching old movies and eating popcorn.  But no matter what they did, he found that he felt better, more alive, just being with her.  

On the drive back to her apartment to pick her up, he began to do the math, and he didn't like the answer.  Sara had been poisoned.  She had been at the lab when the heart was delivered.  The brain had been sent to her house.  A hard lump of fear was beginning to grow in the pit of his stomach.

As if there wasn't enough to be concerned about, the Sheriff's thinly veiled threat needed to be addressed.  If it wasn't soon, Grissom had no doubt that Atwater would find a way to get rid of her.  For a brief moment, that didn't sound like such a bad idea to Grissom.  If she left, she'd be safe.  

He suddenly jerked back to reality.  There was no guarantee she'd live that long, if the killer had her in his sights.  And no guarantee that he wouldn't follow her, wherever she went.

Ignoring the time, Grissom dialed Catherine's cell phone.

"This better be good," Catherine groaned in greeting.

"Catherine, the sheriff is threatening to cut Sara loose over the Rodgers homicide.  I need for you to look into the case again.  Go to his house.  See if you can find anything that establishes a time of death."

"First of all, it's noon, when all decent graveyard shift workers are fast asleep.  Second, I'm handling all these other cases while you and Sara work the heart.  Why can't you do it?" she growled.

"It's not just a heart anymore.  We've got a brain and a leg.  And, besides, I need for you or one of the guys to do it.  I don't want the Sheriff or anyone else to be able to invalidate the evidence."

"Gil, I'm sensing a hidden message here."

"Please, Catherine.  Just do it without all the psychoanalysis."

"You be careful," she warned.  "This is sounding like something that could blow up in your face."

"I'm trying to be careful," he said heavily, accepting that he wouldn't have been able to hide his affair with Sara from Catherine forever. 

The irony that Sara's future was in Catherine's hands wasn't lost on Grissom, but he knew that he couldn't afford to be involved with the case anymore.  If news of their relationship got out, it would cast suspicion on any evidence he collected that cleared Sara.  

"I know things haven't been very good between you two lately," Grissom said.

"You don't think I'd let some personal squabbles influence me, do you?  Just because we've been a little snarky with each other doesn't mean I want her to twist in the wind."

"I'm sorry.  Didn't mean to imply ..."

"Hey, you're upset and worried.  I get that.  I promise that I'll do the best I can."

"Thanks, Catherine.  You're a good friend."

"I'll try to be," she promised.   "Now, get off the phone and let me get my beauty sleep."

* * * * *

"Catherine, Nick, and Warrick will be working the Rodgers case," Grissom said, as they gathered around the table, five cups of strong coffee forming a ring in the center.

"Sara and I have the body parts to deal with."

"Are they from the same victim?" Warrick asked.

"We don't know yet," Sara answered.  "Samples are with Greg.  He's doing a preliminary standard serological screen to compare them.  Should be finished in a couple of hours.  He's also running the DNA.  He got plenty of sample, so it should only take a few days."

"What parts have you got so far?" Nick asked.

"We've got a heart and leg that are female.  The gender of the brain donor is unknown, until Greg gets the DNA back. The heart and leg were sent or left at the lab.  The brain was mailed to Sara, using the same return address as the mushroom kit that poisoned her," Grissom detailed.

The implications began to sink in all around the table, with furtive glances towards Sara indicating that each had drawn the same conclusion.  

"Who'd you piss off?" Nick asked jokingly.

"I piss off everybody," she said mock-seriously.

"True," Warrick said, as all the CSIs nodded in unison.

"But, seriously, can you think of anyone who would have it in for you?" Nick pressed.

"I've been thinking about it ever since the deal with the 'shrooms.  We handle hundreds of cases each every year.  No telling who might have taken it personally," Sara answered.

"I don't like the sound of this," Warrick said in a low voice.  "You shouldn't stay at your house for a while.  This dude knows where you live.  That can't be good."

"You can come stay with me," Catherine offered.  

"That's okay.  I'm going to be staying with a friend," Sara said.  "But thanks."

Though none of them could recall her ever talking about having any friends in Las Vegas outside of work, it seemed likely to them that she must after living there for three years.  But it still seemed strange that she'd never mentioned this good friend before.

Grissom sighed internally, relieved to have temporarily dodged another bullet.  That is, until he caught Catherine's sidelong glance at him.

* * * * *

"I can see someone else needs a lesson."

She drummed her fingers against the steering wheel as she watched the three CSIs walk towards the rundown home.  It had been a lark to follow them.  Her beloved and the witch who was twisting his mind hadn't left the building.  In a moment of inspiration, she decided to see what the others were up to.

As always, her instincts were good.  Of course, when it came to her true love, she was always correct.  They were trying to clear the whore. 

Gil, darling, why? You're smarter than this.  Let her go before she destroys you.  I'll make you happy.  There's no reason to settle for her crass ministrations.  Believe me, she won't be able to satisfy you the way I can.

_She's not even on the same mental level as we are!  Do you really think the whore could orchestrate a plan like I have?  Would she deign to dirty her hands for you?  I've seen her at crime scenes.  The bitch is weak.  Even something as natural as saliva disgusts her._

The Angel of Death shook her head in disbelief.  That the brown-haired bitch hadn't been fired yet was a testimony to the evil influence she had on sweet Gil.  Being high on drugs and being the only suspect in a murder should have been enough to get her out of the lab.

Of course, ruining her career was only the first step.  The whore needed to be out of his life – permanently.

Heading home for a nap, the Angel of Death sighed.  She was neither unreasonable nor petty.  If the floozy had left poor Gil alone, she would have been content to merely destroy her career.  But she had to corrupt him, and for that she would pay dearly. 

Now, the blonde was getting in on the act, trying to save the strumpet's career.  Why?  Gil must have asked her to do it.  She was his friend; it was the only reason she'd be helping the younger slut. 

She'd never considered Willows a danger.  She catted around with too many men for Gil to ever be tempted by her.  But if she was willing to help the whore, then she needed to be put in her place.

TO BE CONTINUED ...


	3. One Man's Trash is Another Woman's Treas...

Chapter 3:  One Man's Trash is Another Woman's Treasure 

"What are we looking for?" Nick asked, wrestling the latex over his hands.  

"Anything establishing the last known time and date that Rodgers was alive," Catherine answered, looking around the rent house with her hands resting on her hips.  

"I'll take the outside," Nick said.  There were bags of what he assumed to be trash on the back porch, and a garbage container in the alley.

"I'll take the back half," Warrick volunteered.

"That leaves me the kitchen and what passes for a living room," Catherine exhaled.  

She laid out a thin plastic tarp on the kitchen floor and dumped the contents of the kitchen trash on it.  The more-than-week-old trash smelled disgusting, and Catherine fought back a wave of nausea.  She concentrated on each item she picked up, no matter how mundane, trying to find any way that its age could be determined.

Five minutes later, she was nearing the bottom of the pile.  Lifting up a now-dried coffee filter full of grounds, she spied a crumpled slip of paper, soaked through with the brown stain of coffee.

"Oh, please.  Oh, please," Catherine chanted softly, gingerly unfurling the paper.  "Shit!  Ink's smeared from the freaking coffee.  Maybe Ronnie can do something with it," she reassured herself, setting the paper to the side.  It only took another few minutes to complete the trash, with nothing else to show for it.  

"Catherine!" Warrick bellowed, taking huge strides into the kitchen.  

"In here," she answered, though it was obvious where she was.

"I found something," he said with more fervor than he usually let show.

"Whaddya got?" she asked excitedly as she struggled to stand gracefully.

"ATM receipt, dated the 15th.  He couldn't have been killed on the 14th."  

"Yeah, that's good, but we really need to find something from the 16th.  That would get Sara completely in the clear."

"I'll keep looking," Warrick said, handing her the ATM receipt to put with her find.

"I'm going to go ahead and take these into the lab.  You and Nick keep looking.  Think outside the box.  Anything that can give us a timeline.  Anything at all," she said.

"We're on it," Warrick nodded.

* * * * *

Wiping her hands carefully on the towel, then running it over and under the door handle to Sara's car, she looked up and down the street before packing her tools away in the SUV.  A locksmith couldn't have done it better.  She always believed a job worth doing was worth doing well.

And there was nothing she wouldn't do for her love.  Why, that's the reason she'd sent the hearts from her offerings first.  How better to show your affection than giving your beloved the heart of the women who had hurt him?

A proud smile beamed, even though her love wasn't in a position to see it.

No, she probably has him in some lewd position.  Bitch!  What does he even see in her?  Sweet Gil isn't shallow, but what could he find to like about the whore?  She's too skinny. All bones.  Her hair is flat, with no body.

The Angel of Death laughed aloud on the empty street.  Soon, the whore really would have no body!

This time, Gil would see the light.  There's no way he'd protect her this time.  He couldn't without implicating himself.  He was smart enough to know that he'd have to get rid off her before they called the police.

It was the first step – he would reject the bitch.  She needed that experience before her final punishment was delivered.

* * * * *

"Grissom!" Sara shouted as she opened the door to her Yukon.  It wasn't locked tonight, and she was sure she had locked it when she got to Grissom's townhouse after shift that morning.  

Grissom quickly made the few strides from his car to her SUV.

"Looks like someone left me a present," she said, pointing at the box in the front seat.

"Call it in," he said, looking around for anything out of the ordinary in his neighborhood.  It was obvious that whoever was stalking Sara knew she was at his house now.  Though he was relieved she wasn't staying alone, he knew that she wasn't safe.  The killer could just as easily have put a bomb in her car as a box.  As a matter of fact, for all he knew it was an explosive.

"Sara, wait.  Let's step away from your car before you use the cell phone."

"You think it could be a bomb?" she asked incredulously.

"I have no idea.  But there's no reason to take a chance," he said, holding her arm as they crossed the street and walked down the block a few hundred feet.

Sara called Brass, surprised that he made no comment about the address she'd given for her location.

"Brass didn't say anything, but what am I supposed to say when everyone gets here?" Sara asked nervously as they walked back to his car.

Grissom kicked the valve stem out of the tire, drawing an amazed gasp from Sara that blended with the hissing of the escaping air.

"Oh, my God!  Why did you do that?"

"My tire was flat and I didn't have time to get it fixed before work.  I called you to pick me up."

"Oh, and I didn't happen to notice the box in the front seat of my SUV?"

"Put on some gloves and put it in the back seat."

"That's tampering with evidence," Sara warned.

"Okay, say someone put it in when you came up to get me.  I wasn't quite ready and you came in to wait.  When you came back down, it was in there."

"That's establishing a timeline we might have to eat later."

"What do you think we should do, then?" Grissom asked, suspecting he knew her answer.

"Tell the truth ... mostly.  But only answer their questions," she said hesitantly, knowing he wouldn't be comfortable with it.  "You have a guest room.  We can tell them that I'm staying here until all of this mess is over.  It's the truth.  They don't have to know which bedroom I sleep in.  It doesn't have any bearing on the case."

"Guess I'll call AAA to come fix my tire," Grissom grumbled as Sara giggled silently behind her hands.

* * * * *

"When were you in your Yukon last?" Brass asked as the swing shift coroner's assistant took the opened box from the hands of the bomb technician who had cleared it.

"This morning at about eight," Sara answered firmly, fixing Brass with a gaze that warned him to stick to the essential facts.

"So it was out here unattended for at least twelve hours." Brass said, more to himself than to anyone else, as he glanced up and down the street instinctively.

"Yes, it was," Sara answered.

"Was it locked?"

"Yes, it was," she answered succinctly.

Brass inspected the door locks and window seals for signs of tampering.  

"Jimmied the door, it looks like.  Hope that doesn't cause you any trouble.  Amateurs can mess up the locking mechanism."

"I'll have it checked out," she said, her arms crossed almost defiantly.

Brass glanced over at Grissom, who was standing on the other side of his car as the tire-man was replacing the valve stem and airing up his tire.  Grissom met Brass's eyes for a moment, then was thankfully drawn away by the need to sign the repair slip.

* * * * *

She swallowed the coffee angrily, not caring that the hot liquid burned on its way down.  It was nothing like the burning in her heart.  He'd actually betrayed her to protect that bitch.

How could he?  That bloody bastard!  I am doing all of this for him, to protect him, and he ruins it!  All for that goddamned whore!  What were you thinking, Gil? 

Now that the police were there, it was only a matter of time before they pieced together the fact that the slut was screwing him.  This could hurt his career.  Didn't he realize she was trying to protect him from that?

The thought was unsettling.  Could he really not be as brilliant as she first thought?  Had she wasted her time on some hormone-driven fool?

No.  Look at Gil.  He's embarrassed to be seen with her.  He's keeping his distance.  I should have realized that he'd take his job too seriously to compromise a scene.  Oh, poor Gil!  I hope he's not too ashamed, but maybe this will teach him a lesson.  He can't be with her.  They weren't meant to be together.  The whore will only hurt him.

The Angel of Death pulled into traffic and drove back to her home to prepare her next package.  Now wasn't the time to stray from the master plan.  Her Gil wasn't like that.  He was being manipulated by the scrawny slut.

This was yet another incident for which the whore would pay.

_Oh, she'll pay all right.  I always collect my debts._

_Death pays all debts._

* * * * *

"Two hearts means at least two victims.  When will you know if these are from more than two victims?" Catherine asked.

"The first heart and brain will probably be DNA-typed this morning.  Greg will start the serological testing on the other parts, and start extractions for DNA."

"Well, I got good news the minute I walked in tonight," Catherine said, beaming.

"Go on, share!" Nick urged.

"Ronnie was able to enhance the stained grocery receipt I found at the bottom of Buddy Rodgers's trash.  It was dated the 16th.  And considering it was at the bottom of the trash  with the morning coffee grounds, and other trash, including food, was on top of it, he was alive and kicking through much, if not all, of the day.  He was killed the night of the 16th, when you were working with Nicky."

"I'm excluded," Sara breathed in relief.

"Yes, ma'am.  I already put in a page to Vega.  It's all circumstantial, but so's the evidence against you.  If this doesn't convince him and the Sheriff, then I don't know what will, short of a signed confession from the real killer."

* * * * *

Grissom had spent much of the morning with Trace, Fingerprints and Questioned Documents, assisting where he could.  The rest of the time he hovered until each tech ran him out of their labs, to go pester one of the others.  He made a circuit of the labs several times until shift was over, coursing through the corridors like a rat in a maze.

Sara had spent her time with Greg, helping to prepare samples for serology and DNA.  She ran some of the immunoassays while he tended to the DNA extractions.

With the end of shift having already come and gone, Sara was still helping Greg monitor the printer that was attached to the computer that was, in turn, attached to the DNA Analyzer.  A vibration on her waist drew her attention, and she read the small digital screen:  "PLS COME HOME."

Greg watched her out of the corner of his eye as she smiled broadly.  It had only been a little over week since she and Grissom had become involved, but his house was already starting to seem like home to her.

Judging by his page, he apparently also felt that she belonged there.  Sara knew that she still had a long way to go when it came to getting inside Gil Grissom's head, but she was pretty sure of her place in his heart.

Shift had actually ended an hour ago, but shortly before that, Greg said that the PCR DNA analyzer was almost ready to give up her secrets.  He had been given plenty of sample, so replication wasn't much of an issue, and the sample wasn't degraded.  

Grissom had walked by the lab at the stroke of eight o'clock, just as shift was ending.  All week, he'd left within half an hour of the end of shift, but since no one had been working overtime this week, the only CSI aware of the change in his routine was Sara.

He stuck his head in the door, silently checking on what they were doing.  

Looking up, Sara realized that it was quitting time, but they still hadn't gotten the promised results.  

"We're waiting on the DNA from the heart.  Then we're going to cross-reference against CODIS," Sara explained.

"Oh.  Okay.  Well, you two don't stay too long.  It's getting late in the month and we're running out of overtime," Grissom said, hoping she'd get the hint.

"It should be out soon," Greg said, willing his prized machine to hurry.

Grissom knew that if he stayed, she wouldn't leave at a reasonable hour, taking his presence as tacit approval for her to continue to work.  Though he was tempted to join the DNA-watching party, he wanted her to rest more, so he left, hoping to entice her away.

"Somewhere you gotta be?  Someone you gotta call?" Greg asked, rousing her from her reverie, pointing at her pager.

"No.  Just a reminder," she said.

"Musta reminded you of something nice, considering the grin on your face," Greg teased.

"How much longer until we get these _alleged_ DNA results?" Sara shot back.  "I think I was lured here under false pretenses."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Greg retorted.  "Besides, I said we'd be getting the results soon.  'Soon' is a relative term."

"So it's my fault for not asking you specifically when?" Sara laughed.  "Okay, precisely when are these results going to be ready?"

"In three minutes," Greg answered.  "Another couple of minutes to fire up CODIS.  But there's no way to know how long that will take.  It could be a few minutes or it could be hours."

"I'll give it an hour," Sara said, looking at her watch.  He'd just be finishing breakfast now, reading the morning paper.  Within the hour, he will have skimmed the news, and completed the crossword puzzle.  

She knew he wouldn't really miss her for another hour or so, but she decided she should still call, if for no other reason than to acknowledge his page. 

"Excuse me, Greg, I've gotta make a quick call," Sara said, standing to leave.

"You can call him from here," Greg said knowingly.

"I don't know what you think you know, Greg, but if any rumors get started, I'll know who to kill first," Sara quipped.  

"Puh-leeze!  I was there, girlfriend.  You were all over him like a cheap suit."

"If you are referring to Grissom, I was impaired.  I wasn't responsible for my actions."

"Yeah, whatever.  I didn't see either one of you struggling against that lip-lock you were in."

"Greg!" she barked, slapping him playfully across the arm.

"Thar she blows!" Greg shouted, pulling the readout from the printer tray.  "I'll be cross-linking this to CODIS while you call your boo," he said, winking.

"Hey," Sara said softly into the cell phone, her back turned to Greg.

"When are you coming home?"

"Soon.  We just got the results, and Greg's putting them into CODIS now.  I thought I'd give it an hour to see if we can get a match, then I'm giving it up for the day."

"Just an hour, right?"

"Yep, just an hour."

"Promise?"

"Yes, I promise," she chuckled.  He knew her too well.

"If you're not here in an hour and 15 minutes, I'm coming up there to drag you home.  I want to see you for a while before bedtime."

"Never pegged you for a caveman."  

"I need you here with me."

"Need?" she asked.

"Yes.  And want," he clarified.

"See you soon," she said, hanging up.

"Go.  I'll page you when I get something," Greg said, not meeting her eyes.

"That's okay.  I'll wait with you."

Which is worse?  Knowing she's with him?  Or knowing she'd rather be with him, even when she's here with me?  

_How long can he possibly hold onto her?  I could understand her crush on him before, while it was just a fantasy.  But now that she's living her fantasy, how long can he keep her happy?  We are talking about Grissom, after all._

_No, maybe it's better for her to be with him as much as possible.  Let her get it out of her system, give him more opportunity to screw up.  He'll do it – he always does.  And when he does ..._

"Naw, I've got some other things to do while I'm waiting.  I'll page you the second I get anything.  No reason for you to sit here and stare at the computer when you could be ... uh ... resting."

"You're the best," she said, walking over to put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

One day, maybe you'll really mean that.

* * * * *

The Angel of Death stared at the common chippie as she strode across the parking lot, as if she didn't have a care in the world.  Smiling; she had the gall to be smiling as she got into her Yukon!

Proud bitch.  Probably too dumb to realize her mistakes.  The whore probably thinks she can steal my Gil without any consequences.  There are always consequences.

It would be so easy to get rid of the witch now.  If nothing else, it would help settle her own nerves not to have to watch the brown-haired slut tempting sweet Gil.  Shoot her, run her over, run her off the road, and strangle her with her own intestines. 

That last idea sounded especially pleasant.  A smile formed at the thought of watching the look of horror on the bitch's face as her life was choked out of her with her own viscera.  Unfortunately, it could only be a daydream.

No, Gil has to reject her.  He has to see that she's the wrong woman for him.  Otherwise, he'll moon her once she's gone, instead of realizing that she was a leech on his soul.

They say ignorance is bliss.  Considering how stupid she is, no wonder she's happy.  If she thinks she can get away with hurting my darling Gil, she's sadly mistaken.

Letting out a sigh, the Angel of Death drove in the opposite direction.  As much as she desired to mutilate Sara, she had an appointment for a pedicure.  It would be rude to be late for the appointment, and she was never impolite.

* * * * *

"Did you get a hit on CODIS?" Grissom asked as soon as she closed the door to his townhouse.

"Well, hello to you, too," she teased.

"I was just surprised to see you already.  I thought you were staying."

"I was.  But Greg said he'd buzz me when he gets a hit.  I think I was getting on his nerves."

"I doubt that," Grissom said, coming up behind her as she rooted through the refrigerator for some juice.  Sliding his arms around her as she stood to take a drink, he inadvertently tickled her, making her almost choke on the juice.

She whirled in mock-anger, still encircled in his arms.  "You trying to kill me?" she finally choked out.

"I could give you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation," he offered.

"Hmm, that might make it worthwhile," she purred, leaning into his kiss.  

"Are ... you ... hungry?" he asked, each word punctuated by a kiss, first to her lips, then her neck, then her collarbone.

"In a manner of speaking," she answered, running her hands up under his shirt.

* * * * * 

She slipped her sunglasses on before pulling the baseball-style cap low over her brow. Grabbing a clipboard, she hopped out of her SUV and went to the vehicle's side door. Taking out the package, she tucked it carefully under her arm before walking up the street.

The key to success was always acting as if you had every right to be doing what you were doing, wherever you're doing it.  No one questions a confident person.  If you didn't belong, you wouldn't be so confident!  And when it came to her love, she had no doubts.

To any potential observers, she was just a delivery person.  No one would pay her any attention.  No one would remember a thing about her.

My gift is another story!  Oh, Gil, soon.  Soon, we'll be together.  I can offer you so much, show you such pleasures as you've never imagined. 

_Fate meant for us to be together.  I knew I had been right to save myself for my soul mate. I knew I was making the right decision when I moved to Las Vegas six years ago, although at the time I didn't understand what drove me to come here._

_You were the first one to grab my attention as I walked through the airport terminal.  I knew immediately that you were different from any other man.  Your intelligence beamed through the crowd.  I knew you were meant to be mine._

The Angel of Death walked up to Willows's house, smiling as she played at double-checking the address on her clipboard.  After pretending to ring the doorbell, she carefully propped her package against the door.

_Good things come in small packages!_

_She chuckled to herself as she strolled back to her SUV.  Over and over again, she practiced signing her future name –  Angela Grissom – on the papers attached to the clipboard._

TO BE CONTINUED ...


	4. Getting a Leg Up on the Competition

Chapter 4 – Getting a Leg up on the Competition 

"Grissom, it's Catherine," she said with an strange undertone.

"Yeah," he answered, yawning broadly, curling his arm up to pull Sara closer to him when he saw that she was awake.

"Guess what I got today."

"If you woke me up to tell me about some shopping trip ..."

"No, better than that."

"Okay, what?"

"Your other leg."

"Huh?"

"I got a right leg."

"At your house?"

"Yes.  Wrapped in a black trash bag, packed in a box, just propped up against my door like it was from Lillian Vernon or something.  I'm glad Lindsey was at school."

"Did the day shift come get it?"

"Gary came.  He made some crack about how he should just transfer to graveyard if he's going to have to do all the PMs for us."

"Like it's a lot of work to do a post-mortem on a leg," Grissom huffed.  "Besides, he'll probably just stick it in the cooler for Al to deal with.  I told him we'd handle any disembodied parts that come up."

"So, tell me the truth.  Are you Sara's mystery friend?" Catherine couldn't help but ask.

"You'd have to ask Sara about her friend," Grissom snapped.

"Fine.  Let me talk to her," she laughed.

"I'll see you tonight," Grissom said, hanging up abruptly.

"What did she want?" Sara asked sleepily.

"Another leg showed up at Catherine's house," Grissom told her.

"Bummer," Sara mumbled, half-asleep.  "How did my name come up?"

"She asked if I were your mystery friend," he answered honestly.

"Doesn't she think I have any other friends?"

"I don't think that was the thrust of her question."

"Umm.  Speaking of 'thrust'," she purred, pushing him over on his back, drawing a smile.

* * * * * 

She sat in the SUV, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel, lost in thought. This was odd.  No other adjective nor adverb better described Gil's ill-advised dalliance with the curator of this house of self-inflicted horrors.

He willingly came to her.  Did he need to cum so bad? Is my sweet Gil so easily led astray by his gonads?  That could be problematic.  Nothing that couldn't be … fixed, but I prefer to keep him fully functional.

The Angel of Death shook her head as she put the SUV in gear.  Stopping in front of the mailbox, she quickly hopped out and left the package.  The screams coming from the building made her pause.

Poor Gil.  What did this whore do to you?  There was no reason for you to suffer so.  She lured you once, but you never returned.  It was just a momentary weakness.  You aren't as strong as I am.  I shouldn't have left you alone for so long.

Heading home, she recalled the first time her Gil had spoken to her.  She had come to a crime scene – as she often did when he was working – and watched with pride as he led the investigation. 

There had been no doubt who was in charge.  Even the other women realized it, all of them drawn in fascination to his masculinity as he lifted the severed limbs from the shallow grave.  Every eye had been riveted on him.

As he left the scene that morning, her Gil had slid under the police tape.  Seeing her, he'd paused, looking her directly in the eye. "Pardon me." Those two words sounded so innocent, but it was the message behind his phrase that told the full story.

Dear, sweet Gil.  I did pardon you that night.  I understand why you hadn't moved forward.  You're so sensitive, so shy.  The world has treated you so harshly, made you doubtful of your own capabilities.

I knew that night I could wait until you were ready.  This is a major step for you.  I know that.  I understand that.  But then that whore ruined everything.  If she hadn't screwed with your mind, you would have been mine by now.

Don't worry, my love.  I'll protect you.  The wench is going to pay, one way or another, she's going to pay for what she's done to you.

Then you'll be mine.  No one will ever love you the way I will.  I'll protect you – for the rest of your life.

Both whores need to be taken care of.  One is screwing with him now, and the other is still a danger.

_Where there's life, there's hope.  I'm not going to give either slut hope._

* * * * *

"I don't want to go to her house," Sara said adamantly, her arms crossed and her head bobbing nervously with each word.

"She doesn't bite," Grissom mumbled.

"Unless you pay her to," Sara quipped.

Grissom closed his eyes and took a deep breath, wondering how much more complicated this case could get, and in turn how much more complicated his life could get.

"Well, I'm not going by myself," Grissom said firmly.

"Afraid of what might happen?" Sara shot back acidly.

"No.  Afraid of what you might think would happen," Grissom answered, fixing her with a gaze that bordered between hurt and fear.

"Take Catherine.  They're buds, right?"

"Not really, though I think they got along well enough.  She's not all that hard to get along with," Grissom shrugged.

"I guess not!" Sara barked.  "But I'm not going.  Take someone else."

"Come on.  We go, ask a few questions, look around.  It's a crime scene, like any other.  We can't ignore it just because you're jealous."

"Oh, this is so far beyond jealousy, Grissom!  Jealousy is what I feel when you can't quit looking at every showgirl you see, usually with your mouth hanging wide open.  But this is different – you slept with her!"

"You don't know that," he shot back.

"You've never denied it," she said, with a glare that could melt stone.

"I've never discussed it one way or the other."

"Okay.  So deny it.  Did you or did you not have sex with that Lady Heather woman?"

"You'll be with me," he demurred, opting not to answer.

"I noticed you didn't answer the question."

"Sara, when she meets you, she'll understand why I never came back," Grissom said softly.

"Oh, that's a good one!  How long have you been working to think up that line?"

"About six months, give or take," he admitted.  "But it happens to be true.  It just took that long for me to think of how to say it."

"Grissom, please don't humiliate me this way," Sara said pleadingly.  "Go by yourself, or take someone else with you, but don't put me through this."

"Okay, honey," he said lowly, lightly grasping her shoulders, feeling them as tense as metal.  "I'll send Nick and Warrick."

"You're not going?"

"Not if you're not with me."  He felt her relax slightly, though she was still staring at him unblinkingly.  They had never discussed Lady Heather – for good reason.  He didn't know how to explain what he didn't understand himself.  And she didn't want to ask any questions that she didn't want to hear the answer to.

"I wish I could take it back, make it go away," Grissom said more sadly than guiltily.  He had hoped that Sara hadn't heard the rumors.  Though he had often berated himself for his moment of weakness, the guilt had been manageable until today when he saw the pain in her eyes.

"I know what you mean.  There are things I wish I could take back, too," Sara said, suddenly remembering the look on Grissom's face when he first heard that she had been dating Hank Pettigrew.

"All of that's in the past, Sara."

"You're right," she sighed, leaning into him, feeling the anger, pain and guilt begin to subside when he pulled her in tightly.  "But I still don't want to go," she said, pushing back from him slightly.

"We don't have to," he answered, lightly stroking her hair before being drawn, inexorably, into a kiss that was more about affirmation than affection.  Pulling back, he knew there was something he should say, but the words wouldn't come.  If he couldn't tell her, he at least wanted to show her.

Quickly calling Warrick to direct him to process the mailbox at Lady Heather's Domain, where she had found a plastic bag containing a frozen brain, he turned his attentions to Sara.

Grissom silently damned his age;  if they hadn't made love only a few hours ago, he would be able to make love to her now, to show her who he desired.  But he had to compromise, showing her instead who he desired to please, taking the time to adore every inch of her.  

When she lay satisfied in his arms, Grissom spoke without thinking, confounding them both.  "I've never needed anyone like I need you," he said, allowing her to plainly see the emotion in his face. 

* * * * *

"Why exactly did Grissom wake us up in the middle of the day to come here and do this?  It's not even our case." Nick asked Warrick as they drove up to the house.  The mailbox was taped off, with an officer standing next to it;  Brass was on the porch talking to Lady Heather.

"I guess he didn't want to do it," Warrick answered.

"Why not?  It's his case.  His and Sara's.  It's not like he's never been here before."

"Exactly," Warrick huffed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Nick asked, slamming the door to the SUV.

"Did you read the report on the heart they found yesterday in Sara's car?"

"No."

"Read it," Warrick said.

"Why?  It's not our case.  Or at least it wasn't."

"Pay attention to where her car was," Warrick hinted.

"At her friend's, I figure."

"You figure wrong."

"Where was it?"

"Read it for yourself.  Then you'll know why we're here instead of Grissom."

"Are you sayin' ...?"

"I didn't say shit.  I just told you to read the report," Warrick answered, opening his kit to begin dusting the handle to the mailbox door.

"Grissom?" Nick asked for confirmation.

"Process," Warrick growled.  "The sooner we're finished, the sooner we can get back home to sleep."

* * * * *

The Angel of Death watched curiously as the two males worked the scene.  She'd been forced to park the SUV in the full sun.  This street offered so few good views of the crime scene.  A glistening sheen had formed over her body as she waited for her one and only to appear.

Not that she was complaining.  She was strong, unlike so many other people.  It was a small discomfort to endure for the chance to visit with her beloved.  Besides, it gave her time to catch up on her needlework.

Sipping her mint tea, she turned her attention back to the crime scene.  Neither of the CSIs present was worthy of the designation of "man".  Compared to her sweet Gil, both were noticeably lacking.  Each had caused her beloved trouble over the years.

So why had he sent them to this scene?  Conflicting thoughts ran through her mind as she tried to evaluate the situation.

_Gil didn't consider this worthy of his attention?  Surely he had to know this was all for him.  It wasn't like him to be so rude.  No, no it's not.  It must be the whore.  She's distracted him.  Again._

The Angel of Death let out a sigh as she neatly rolled up her canvas.  Placing the embroidery in the carryall, she made sure all the bobbins of thread were packed neatly.

A place for everything and everything in its place.

Looking in the mirror, she took a moment to dab away the perspiration rolling down her cheeks, before fussing with the wisps of hair plastered to her face.

She needed to go home for a bath before she did her shopping.  A proper lady never appeared in public in such a state.  Not that the other customers in the Goodwill and Salvation Army stores would know a basic fact like that.

It was distressing having to associate with so many uncouth individuals, but much of her merchandise was found in thrift stores and pawnshops.  People had no idea the worth of the items they donated or sold off.

She did,though, and the Angel of Death made a good living finding the occasional true treasure amongst the plastic flotsam and cheap bisque jetsam for sale in these locations. 

Every week, she spent a hundred or so dollars at various locations in the city.  By the end of the month, it would translate into thousands of dollars from online auctions and classified listings in collectible catalogs.

Checking her watch, she let out a distressed sigh. By the time she cleaned up and changed, it would be later than she liked to shop. The trash of the city usually slept until late in the day, since they had no jobs to go to.  Now, she'd have to associate with them.

Gil, darling, you do try my patience.

* * * * * 

The atmosphere in the room was so charged that it seemed to crackle with electricity, threatening to spark.  Grissom scanned the faces seated around him:  to his right, Warrick was looking down at the coffee cup that he was toying with distractedly;  beside him Catherine was leaned back in her chair, cautiously glancing around, finally settling her eyes on Grissom;  to her right was Nick, who seemed agitated, occasionally flashing a peek at the others, but mostly gaping at Sara;  and finally there was Sara, who stared straight ahead at the gap between Nick and Catherine.

Looking back to Catherine for some sort of explanation, she lowered her eyes a second and shrugged almost imperceptibly.  Sighing deeply, Catherine pushed herself back from the table and stood a moment before walking to the break room door.  She closed it, and everyone in the room was struck at the same time with the realization that they had never closed the door before.  She sat back down heavily.

"Talk," Grissom said simply, leaning back in his chair, looking from face to face.

Though Nick looked as though he might explode if he didn't say something soon, Grissom knew he wouldn't be the one to speak first.  Warrick seemed resigned to let someone else lead the charge.  All eyes went to Catherine, assuming she'd say whatever was on their collective mind.  

She took another moment to gather her thoughts. "Gil ...," she began uncertainly, pausing briefly as if she decided to change directions.  "Sara ..."

"You read the report on the second heart," Sara said.

"Yes," Catherine answered.  Warrick's only reaction was a deepening in the furrow of his brow.  Nick nodded, pursing his lips as if to block off any words that threatened to escape before he could censor them.

Grissom couldn't think of anything to say.  He normally felt most comfortable talking about work, and least comfortable talking about his personal life.  But this case had entangled the two, leaving his feelings in chaos.  He couldn't discuss the one without revealing the other.

Sara's words had been issued as a statement, not a question, and as such did little to invite the others to share their thoughts or feelings.  Instead of the revelation relieving the tension, the energy in the room seemed to peak, sending arcs between them like the fingers of electricity emanating from a Vandergraf generator.

An insistent rap on the door drew their attention, and Grissom nodded at Greg to enter.

"Sorry, but I thought you'd want to know this right away," he huffed nervously.  

"What is it, Greg?" he asked sharply.

"The DNA ... from the first heart.  I got a hit."

"From CODIS?" Sara asked, wondering why it had taken so long.

"No.  Compliance," he said gravely, looking at the shocked eyes of the criminalists.

"Who?" Grissom asked, knowing that he would have heard if anyone at the lab had gone missing.

"Charlotte Gibney," Greg revealed.

"Who?" Sara asked, looking around for an explanation.

"Charlotte?" Grissom asked, as if he'd heard wrong.

"Yes," Greg nodded.

"Thank you, Greg.  Please close the door on the way out," Catherine said, dismissing him.

"Charlotte.  It's been a while since I thought of her," Warrick said, breaking his self-imposed silence.

"Who's Charlotte?" Sara asked again.

"Charlotte was the fingerprint tech before Jacqui.  She was here when you first came, I think," Nick answered.  "But she left soon after that, if I recall correctly.  You might not have ever met her."

"I thought she moved away from Vegas," Catherine said.  

"She did.  She took a job with a private forensic group as a lab supervisor.  I took her out to dinner to celebrate her promotion," Grissom murmured absently.

The discomfort in the room began to grow again as Grissom's words reminded all but Sara that Grissom used to date Charlotte.  Until Sara came to Las Vegas.

Realizing that he'd spoken aloud, Grissom turned to look at Sara, adding yet another stab of guilt as he watched her apprehend what he was saying.  It wasn't the time or the place, but he desperately wanted to try to explain to her why he obviously had no problem working with Charlotte at the same time as he dated her, though he'd had problems trying to reconcile the two with Sara.  

He had enjoyed her pleasant company, but he never had any real emotional investment in the relationship.  She didn't subvert his thoughts.  He never obsessed over her.  There was never a time when he felt like it could interfere with the job they had to do.  He certainly would never have considered leaving the lab to stay with her.

Sara lowered her head, appearing to be doodling on a piece of paper, propping her cheek against her fist.  After a moment, she looked up at Grissom, her expression becoming more animated.  

"I think I've got it."

"Got what?" Catherine asked hesitantly.

"The pattern," she answered.  "It should have been obvious before, but the identity of the first victim confirms it.  It's the women in your life," Sara said, pointedly looking at Grissom.

"Sara, we only have the identity of one victim," Grissom warned.  "That hardly constitutes a pattern."

"The recipients of the body parts are victims, too.  Maybe we're supposed to be intimidated by them.  Or maybe they're a warning that we're future victims.  But, look, Charlotte is killed.  You dated her several years ago.  Catherine, Heather and I have received parts.  See?"

"Yes, but there were parts sent to the lab.  And I never dated Catherine," Grissom said firmly, looking to Catherine for confirmation.

"That's true," she nodded.

"The killer might not know that.  Or it may be more generic than women you dated, to include any woman who's in any relatively close relationship with you.  I don't know the significance of sending parts to the lab in general yet, but I think that it's all related to what's important to you."

"So ...," Catherine mused.  "...Maybe it's not about stalking Sara because of some freak trying to terrorize her for something she did or didn't do to him.  Instead, it's about you.  She's just collateral damage."

"Maybe," Warrick agreed.  "And I could be saying the same thing you are, just with a little different twist.  Maybe Grissom's not the target, with these women being collateral damage.  Maybe Grissom is the key, but the targets really are the women.  I mean, if he wanted to kill Grissom, he could have done that any time."

"Maybe he wants to make him suffer.  Kill or terrorize the people around him," Catherine added.

"Not people in general.  Women," Nick clarified.

"That means something," Grissom agreed.  "Though I'm still wondering about the significance of the deliveries to the lab."

"No matter who you're with, the lab's always the other woman," Sara said, fixing him with a knowing gaze, slightly smiling at him for the first time since shift started.

"That's such a chick thing to say," Nick laughed.

"No, I think she's onto something," Catherine nodded.

"I don't see it," Nick demurred.

"That's because you're a man.  ...  Wait!  Grissom," Sara said excitedly.  "Seeing the lab as competition for affection is not typical male thinking.  I think the killer may be a woman."

"Only four percent of serial killers are female," Grissom told her.

"I'm aware of that," Sara retorted.  "But that four percent exists.  Take a look at the big picture here.  Think about it in terms of a female killer.  She's identifying the 'competition', by who gets the parts.  Then one by one they're stalked, terrorized, or killed.  It works."

"Who's the second victim?" Nick asked suddenly, looking to Grissom.

"I don't know," he shrugged.  "How far back is this person looking?"

"Could be your prom date, for all we know," Nick said.

"I didn't go to the prom," Grissom countered. "But it's not like I've never dated," he added, his male pride not up for another bruising.

"You need to make a list of the women who would likely fit the victimology," Sara told him.

"You want me to make a list of every woman I've ever taken out?" he asked uncomfortably.  "Why?  Greg's already put the DNA from the second victim into CODIS, and now I assume the Compliance database.  We should know soon enough."

"It can't be that many names," Catherine snorted.  "It'll probably be quicker with the list.  Besides, there may be some people who need to be warned."

"Look, this is all just a preliminary theory," Grissom warned them.  "Let's not go jumping to conclusions.  We could miss something important if we're concentrating solely on Sara's theory."

"You just don't want us to see the list," Warrick teased.

"Well, once you exclude Sara, me, Heather, and Charlotte, who else is left?" Catherine asked pointedly.

"Do we really have to discuss this?" Grissom asked.

"Yes, we do," Catherine answered.  "It's possible that the killer is on that list."

"Well, we can exclude the four you named," Nick said.

"Not necessarily," Sara warned.  "Just because someone 'found' a body part doesn't exclude them from being the perpetrator."

"Grissom was with you when you found both body parts, wasn't he?" Nick asked, finally getting the question off his chest.

"Yes, but that's no proof that I'm excluded," Sara answered.  "One was mailed to me, the other was in my car.  I could have done either.  I could be lying.  Catherine could be lying.  Heather could be lying."

"Or you could all be innocent," Warrick added.

"Of course," Sara nodded.

"You don't have any motive," Grissom stated.  "Nor does Catherine."

"Not that I disagree, but what makes you so sure?" Warrick asked.

"Because, if the point is to make me suffer, either of them could have done that long ago, and in ways that wouldn't implicate them.  They are CSIs, after all."

"What if that's not the point?" Nick asked.  "What if the point is competition?"

"Then they still don't have a motive," Grissom stated flatly.

"Because I'm not interested," Catherine said, adding, "No offense."

All eyes turned to Sara.  "Because I don't need to compete," she finally admitted.

Grissom cleared his throat before he spoke, the sound almost booming in the deafening quiet that had descended.

"Which of you three is going to talk to Lady Heather?" he asked.

* * * * *

The checklist was short, but precise – a detailed outline of the day's activities.  If nothing else, she was disciplined.  Once she set her mind on a task, she went about it until it was completed.  She wasn't one of those flighty women who could never finish a simple task. 

First, she needed to talk to the florist.  His prices were simply unreasonable.  While she wanted the wedding to be perfect, there was no way they were going to spend so much on flowers that would be wilted by the end of the day.

No, that simply wasn't practical.  Some flowers may grow on trees, but money certainly didn't!  Neither Gil nor she were irresponsible that way.

Next, she needed to go to the post office.  Her supplies of packing materials and stamps were running low.  A quick check of a map located the closest branch on the route of her other errands.

Once those chores were done, there would be time for a quick dinner at one of the little bistros away from the tourist traps.  Then she could go slaughter the whore.

Afterwards, maybe she'd treat herself to some ice cream – low-fat, of course. 

TO BE CONTINUED ...


	5. You Only Hurt the One You Love

Chapter 5 – You Only Hurt the One You Love 

"Catherine, how very pleasant to see you again.  It's been too long," Lady Heather said as she opened the door.

"How've you been?" Catherine returned.

"Very well, thank you.  Is this visit personal or professional?"

"Professional."

"My profession or yours?" Heather asked with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

"Mine, unfortunately."

"Come in.  All my employees are present and accounted for, and in good health.  Your two delicious-looking co-workers already came about the gift someone left in my mailbox.  So what else brings you to my humble domain?"

"Heather, we're investigating the murders of two women."

"Am I a suspect?" Lady Heather asked.

"We're not to the point of developing suspects yet," Catherine evaded.  "But the only connection we can find between them, other than their genders, is that they may have both at one time been involved with Grissom."

"Perhaps he should be your suspect, then," Heather laughed.

"He's been excluded," Catherine replied seriously.

"What has this to do with me?"

"We're talking to anyone who's been involved with him," Catherine answered.

"That should be a short list," Lady Heather quipped.

"It is," Catherine agreed.  "And it's getting shorter all the time," she added ominously.

"What makes you think we were involved?" Lady Heather asked innocently.

"Please.  He and I have been friends for 15 years.  Do you think I don't know?  Hell, half the lab knows, though I have no idea how."

"It was hardly a long-term relationship," Heather allowed.

"Still, you were involved."

"Not involved enough to want to kill his girlfriends, Catherine.  I was a diversion.  He was a diversion.  Nothing more, nothing less.  A good time was had by all, and we moved on.  It was nothing worth murdering anyone over."

"Hey, I hear ya.  But, be careful.  If the killer knew enough to leave one of the body parts here, you could be in danger.  Watch your back."

"I always do," Heather replied.

* * * * *

Grissom sat at his desk, pen in hand, not moving despite being poised on the page.  He was thinking about Charlotte.  Though he had done nothing to cause her death, other than date her almost four years ago, he couldn't help but feel guilty.  If he hadn't dated her, she'd be alive.

The second victim was likely another woman he'd dated.  He could only think of less than half a dozen women spanning from Charlotte to Sara.  One was dead.  Depending on how long the killer's been stalking him, Sara could be considered either the next on the list, or the last on the list.

Or it could be Catherine who's in the most danger, he thought.  The concept of her dying was hard enough, especially with her having a child.  But the idea that it would be due to her friendship with him made it all the more difficult.  Grissom instinctively wished that he had never had any relationships of any kind.  That was actually more natural for him, anyway.

"Hey," Sara said softly from the door.

"Hey.  Come in."

"Still working on your list?  Damn, Grissom, I knew you were a stud, but I never knew you spread it around that much," she teased.

Grissom shot her a disapproving scowl, but couldn't help morphing into a small smile when she grinned at him.

"Actually, I'm done.  I was just thinking.  Sara, maybe we shouldn't see each other for a while.  For your own safety," he said unevenly.

"That didn't help Charlotte," Sara countered.

"That's true," Grissom murmured, exhaling heavily.

"I'm sorry about what happened to her," Sara offered.

"She was a good tech.  Kind of a smart ass, but not in a mean way.  Funny ... she was funny."

Sara nodded uncomfortably.  It wasn't ever pleasant to hear about past lovers, but she was in the position where she felt it was inappropriate to allow herself to dislike the woman, considering she had paid with her life.

"But, Sara, it wasn't the same.  You need to know that," he said, pushing his door closed before taking a seat in the chair next to Sara.

"You don't have to tell me.  It was a long time ago," she said, waving him off.

"No, that's not what I mean.  You probably wonder why I didn't think it was a problem to ask her out, even though she worked for me.  But it was with you."

"You don't have to justify yourself to me," Sara said, though she had been wondering that very thing ever since she'd heard about the woman several hours ago.

"It was just a casual dating thing.  It wasn't like we were in love."

"Just like Hank and me," Sara said, hoping he would finally see what she'd never found the opportunity to explain.

"I suppose," Grissom shrugged.  "Except Charlotte and I didn't date over a year, like you and Hank did.  We just went out a few times."

"Why did you stop seeing her, if you don't mind me asking?"

"You.  I stopped seeing her when you came here."

"Why?  We weren't dating."

"Didn't mean I wasn't interested," Grissom answered.

"But you got over it quickly enough, didn't you?  How many women did you date after I got here?"

"Not counting you and Charlotte?  Four," he answered uneasily.

"Wow.  I feel stupid," Sara said, standing up and walking to the door.  

Grissom caught up to her just as she was turning the knob.  "Sara ..." he said, unable to find the words to make the embarrassment that either of them felt go away.

"Your five to my one.  And you had the nerve to rake me over the coals for it.  But, it's not really your fault.  I was the one too stupid to see what was going on.  I could have been dating, too.  Duh!" she said, shaking her head in disbelief, her back still turned to him.  "Naive, much?"

"I can't take any of it back," he shrugged.  "I already have to live with knowing that one of the women, possibly two, may have died because we dated.  Others may be targeted.  Maybe the point _is_ to torture me.  If so, it's working.  And if all the rest of it isn't torture enough, I've got to watch her tear us apart.  And there's nothing I can do to stop it."

Grissom tentatively reached out a hand towards her back, but stuttered and stopped, letting it drop listlessly.

"Yes, there is," she said, turning.  

Though he didn't speak the words, Grissom's eyes narrowed slightly, unmistakably asking 'What can I do?'

"Just hang on as tightly as you can.  Don't let go," she whispered, running her hands up his arms until he wrapped them around her.

"Are you still coming home with me?" he asked uncertainly.

"Of course.  I love ... being with you," Sara said, changing her message at the last moment.

"I love being with you, too," Grissom repeated, each of them one step closer to being able to say what they truly meant.

"Now that everyone knows, let's take your car home and leave mine here."

"Sure.  But why?" Grissom asked, curious.

"She can't be stalking all of us all of the time.  If my car's here, she may think I haven't left."

"It can't hurt anything at this point."  Grissom began gathering papers and files into his briefcase, though he hadn't worked at home for the better part of two weeks.

"Where's your weapon?" Sara asked, dead-serious.

"In my locker.  Why?"

"I think you should keep it with you," Sara suggested.

"I will, if you will," he countered.

"You said that like 'I'll show you mine, if you'll show me yours'," she laughed.

"That, too," he said with a grin.  

* * * * *

_Damn it all to hell!_

The Angel of Death threw the porcelain clown through the glass door of the curio cabinet, shattering her collection of crystal animals.  Seeing the destruction she brought to the defenseless knickknacks, she sat down heavily.

This isn't good.  I can't keep losing control like this.  It's bad enough I nearly got caught with the whip-whore.  I should have realized she'd have an alarm system.  It's probably how she keeps her employees from escaping the hell she puts them through.

Well, experience was the best teacher.  Before she tried again, she'd have to learn how to bypass the security system.  A chain was only as strong as its weakest link.  The quickest way in would be to pose as a potential client. 

That idea was repugnant, but a girl had to do what she had to do. She was close to accomplishing her goal.  

Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.

She pondered the possibility of acquiring explosives. It would certainly make things easier, but those items were too easily traced.  She had to give the devil her due: the scrawny slut knew how to take credit for other people's work to make convictions.

Now wasn't the time to waiver from her plan.  Soon, the whores would be gone, and Gil would be safe.  Until then, she had to remain calm.  It wasn't like her to lose control like this.  She was very genteel.

Unlike the brown-eyed slut, she'd been raised to be a lady.  The Angel of Death knew how to dress properly when going out, how to wear makeup in a manner that highlighted her features.  Tossing things in a rage was very unbecoming of a woman of her stature.  Gil surely wouldn't approve, even if all her work were for him.

Men rarely did approve.  Such base creatures, led by their tiny heads, instead of their brains.  Not Gil, though.  He wasn't like that.  It was the bad influence of the whores and sluts with whom his work forced him to associate that caused his troubles.

Well, that would change soon enough.  The whores would be dead, and I can make sure he never is led astray again.

She quickly got the broom and dustpan.  Never leave until tomorrow a chore that should be done now.  Gil would appreciate that about her, she was certain.

After dumping the shattered glass into the trash, she measured the curio frame.  In the morning, she'd go to the hardware store to get a new pane of glass.  She broke it; it was her responsibility to fix it.

Once that task was completed, she moved to the freezer, shifting through her carefully packaged parts.  She smiled as she pulled out the right container to defrost. Tomorrow night would be the perfect night for liver.

* * * * * 

No matter what the season, Lady Heather's Domain always looked like it was Halloween.  The large gothic home was well maintained, but spooky nonetheless.  The exterior was dark in these few waning moments of night before dawn proclaimed the new day, with the only illumination coming from a few of the windows.

Brass sighed as he climbed the few steps of the porch, stopping to knock politely on the door, knowing it would be attended.  As he expected, it was only a few seconds until the door was opened.

"Why, Detective Brass.  What brings you to my domain?" she purred, her voice as sultry as he'd ever heard it.

"I'd like to talk to you about the prowler you reported tonight," he said, smiling.

"Since when does a homicide detective investigate prowlers?" she asked suspiciously, but gliding backwards to allow him entrance.

"I'm alone," he said, catching that she looked to see if he had anyone with him.

Lady Heather closed the door and turned smoothly, the sheer black gauze skirt swaying seductively.

 "So, tell me about your prowler," he said.

"Tell me why you want to know," she countered.

"Humor me," he said with a grin.

Lady Heather fixed him with an appraising stare, but it was nothing he hadn't seen before and used more than once himself.  His poker face held, and she finally relented.

"I have a security system, since the lighting outside is less than optimal, though a necessary part of the ambience of my business."

"So an alarm alerted you?" Brass asked.

"Yes.  And I'm even more wary since receiving the gift of the brain.  So I went to the console to check it out," Lady Heather said, gliding sensuously into her office, then into another room that adjoined it.  On the desk was a security panel with a dozen small monitors showing various views of the exterior and interior of the house, a computer, and a phone.  

"Nice set-up," Brass noted.  

"Whenever an alarm is tripped, there is a delay while the digital recording starts.  The alarm is audible after five seconds," she said, sitting down at the computer to find the log of the attempted break-in.

"Here we go," she said, leaning back in her chair to give Brass a better view – of her, as well as of the computer screen.

A shadowy figure appeared on the screen, hooded and dressed all in black, the quintessential prowler.  A pry-bar appeared from under the jacket, and dark-gloved hands worked it between the bottom of the window and the sill until the lock broke from the strain.  

The prowler stilled to listen intently, making sure that no one had heard what little noise had been made during the break-in.  Satisfied after a few seconds, a small tote bag was hefted in through the window and set on the floor.  Just as the figure put one leg through the opening, the alarm sounded.  

Brass chuckled and looked briefly over at Lady Heather when the prowler startled, nearly falling out of the window, slamming the back of the head against the bottom of the sash.  One hand covered what was no doubt going to be a nasty bruise, and the other reached in to grab the bag.  Looking both ways, apparently unsure which way to run, the uninvited guest finally took flight.

"Sorry that the recording doesn't show much detail.  Not enough light.  I'm going to have the cameras in the back replaced with night vision cameras," Lady Heather said.  

"Who did your security?" Brass asked, not seeing the usual omnipresent logos on any of the equipment.

"A client," she said, smiling, her green eyes laughing.  "He used to be in military intelligence.  Then he did a stint in the FBI.  Now he's an independent security consultant."

"There's good money in that line of work," Brass said.  "Can I get a copy of your surveillance video?  The guys at the crime lab might be able to pull more detail from it."

"Of course.  Give my regards to Mr. Grissom," she said, but without the smile in her eyes.

"I'll do that," Brass said, taking the disk.  He was anxious to leave the Domain.  While he had often found his trips there somewhat amusing, the fact that he kept having to go back began to play on his nerves.  

While Heather seemed like a nice enough woman behind her façade, not to mention an astute businesswoman, the nature of her business drew too much from the dark underbelly of Las Vegas.  He saw enough of that every night without getting a concentrated dose at Lady Heather's Domain.

* * * * *

They were no more than a few feet inside the door when he reached for her.  

"I've been needing this all night," he said – the last words either of them spoke for over an hour.  Their kiss was almost frantic – two souls desperately needing to feel the connection that would make them one united being.

If anything, their lovemaking that morning was even more frenetic than the first time they were together, when the newness had driven them impatiently towards their goal.  Though it was even more frenzied this morning, with pure passion overwhelming them both, there was no selfishness, no roughness, nothing to detract from the pure emotion being shared.

There was no sense nor sensation unshared:  sight, smell, taste, sound, or touch.  They had experienced all of these in various combinations and permutations in the past couple of weeks, but never as fully and as openly as they did now – the unplanned revelations at the beginning of shift driving them to reveal themselves to each other all the more now.

The apogee of their rapture was almost bestial in intensity, with neither holding anything back, the sounds no doubt traveling through the walls and doors, though none of his neighbors were home to blush at them.

He lazily stroked her arm until she took his hand, pulling his arm across her chest, laying hers on top.  His other arm was her pillow.  

When they made love, she knew he wanted her; when he enveloped her to sleep, she knew he loved her.  He'd never said the words, but he'd shown her every morning as he surrounded her body with his.  It wasn't an act of possession as much as it was an act of adoration.

His flirtations and interludes with other women still chafed her, but she was firmly convinced that even if he had sex with the others, he never held them like this, and that made all the difference.

* * * * *

_Fucking whore!  You're nothing but a cheap Jezebel!_

Slamming her hands on the leather seats of the SUV, she screamed her rage until her throat was raw.  It had been so painful, so terribly painful.  Didn't he realize the pain he was forcing her to endure?

Parked in front of Grissom's townhouse with the windows rolled down, she had been able to hear their screams.  The carnal nature of their cries wasn't lost on her.  They sounded no better than a pair of rutting animals!

Unable to bear the sounds, she'd driven off, taking refuge in the parking lot of a grocery store.  There, alone in an abandoned corner, she finally let her agony loose.

How could you debase me like this, Gil?  How?  I thought you were different.  I couldn't have been wrong about you. 

_No.  It's the whore.  She's doing this to you.  You think it's enjoyable, but she's corrupting you with her vile ways.  It's not your fault you're a man.  That naturally makes you weak._

After taking a moment to collect herself, the Angel of Death drove to her favorite diner.  She'd spent many an hour here, watching as Gil ate breakfast after a shift.  A cup of coffee and danish later, she made her way back to her house.

The harlot was dense.  That much was clear.  She'd distracted Gil too much for him to completely understand her messages of love. 

I guess it's time to give her a direct dispatch.

_Gil is mine.  Some things aren't meant to be shared.  It's about time you learned that lesson, whore._

Even if it's the last thing you ever learn.

TO BE CONTINUED ...


	6. The Quality of Mercy Is Not Strained

Chapter 6 – The Quality of Mercy Is Not Strained 

"I hope I didn't wake you, Dr. Grissom," Stevie, the day shift diener said nervously.  "But Dr. Telgenhoff told me to call you.  We got an arm in the mail today."  

Stevie hated being a diener, having to do all the grunt work at the morgue.  He hoped that he'd get to be an Assistant Coroner once he finished his degree.  After medical school and a pathology residency, he'd be able to be a Medical Examiner.  Remembering that goal was all that kept him going sometimes.

"Prints?" Grissom grumbled tiredly.

"No hand ... just the arm," the diener said quickly.  

"Okay.  Tell him I'd like him to save it for Al."

"Yes, sir.  It's already in the cooler."

"Good," Grissom said, hanging up without a farewell.  He wasn't sure he'd recognize the day shift diener if he ran over him in the parking lot.  He damn sure wasn't going to waste pleasantries on him after only five hours of sleep.

"What's up?" she asked, acting annoyingly refreshed compared to Grissom.

"Arm sent to the lab," he answered, too tired to form a longer sentence.

"Soon we'll have enough parts to start putting together a whole person."

"Two," he corrected.

"Why's she mixing the parts up like that?" Sara mused.

"Maybe she thinks it'll make it more difficult to identify them."

"No, Grissom.  She's much smarter than that.  There's a significance to the parts, their order, and which part goes where.  I can feel it.  Here, let's take a look at this," she said, grabbing a pen and pad from the drawer in the bedside table.

"I'm too tired," Grissom grumbled.  "I'll look later.  Gotta sleep."

"Okay, sleepyhead.  I'll just go in the other room and work on this while you sleep," she said, scooting towards the edge of the bed.

"No.  Come here," he said, pulling her back.

"Grissom!" she chided.

"You said to hold onto you.  Not to let you go.  That's all I'm doing," he mumbled, pulling her back into his chest.

Though she was no longer sleepy, especially now that her subconscious was starting to feed her possible clues about the case, Sara decided not to argue with him.  She laid still, enjoying his warmth and his closeness, until she could feel his body lapsing into sleep.  

His breathing slowed and deepened, and his hold on her relaxed.  She waited another few minutes, then carefully eased out of his grasp.  As she stood, she turned to look at him, as he lay naked and unashamed, sprawled across their wrecked bed.  She leaned over and pulled the sheet up over him from the wad at his feet.

A wave of emotion rippled through her, and she wondered if or how she would ever be able to live an ordinary life again, waking up alone in an empty efficiency apartment.  

* * * * * 

He usually slept soundly, but not always, so Sara was careful to make as little noise as possible.  She decided to wait on her shower, and as all of her clothes were in the bedroom, she wrapped herself loosely in a soft cotton blanket that was draped across the back of the couch now that fall had come to the desert.

Propping both feet on the coffee table, she used her thighs as a desk, quickly drawing up a table listing the parts they had received, when, where, and the recipient.  She made another column and added which part belonged to which victim, according to Greg's blood work.

Four days, seven parts – three to the lab, two to her, one to Catherine and one to Heather.  Four belonging to the first victim – to Charlotte, Sara reminded herself.  Two belonging to victim two.  Today's arm wouldn't be identified for another 12 hours, at least.

The first three were from Charlotte.  After that, one from each.  Sara tapped the end of her pen absently on the pad, before catching herself, hoping the annoying tapping hadn't disturbed Grissom's rest.  Listening intently for a moment, she was satisfied that he was still asleep.

She drew a short line between the entries to group them by the days they were received.  One the first day.  Three the second.  Two the third.  One the fourth – at least so far.  Her face began to gather in a scowl of concentration.

Relax.  Just take in the information without trying to force it.  Allow the evidence to speak for itself.  Lab, me, lab, me, Catherine, Heather, lab.  Heart, brain, leg, heart, leg, brain, arm.  Or maybe ... Heart, brain, heart, left leg, brain, right leg, arm.

Charlotte was the first.  Her parts should be first.  I'd bet my life that the arm is Charlotte's.  

Sara tentatively grouped them by victim, in the order she they had appeared.

From Charlotte we've got the heart, brain, left leg, right leg, arm.  Which arm?  Damn, I wish I knew that.  I'm betting left.

Sara quickly and quietly called the coroner's office, asking excitedly which arm had arrived that day.  The left, she was told.

I knew it.  Heart, brain, left leg, right leg, left arm.  The second victim started off with the heart and the brain.  The next should be a left leg of the second woman.  She's organized.  Or obsessive-compulsive.  Or the pattern means something. She's fixated on Grissom.  The first delivery is always a heart.  Symbolic of her feelings for him.

A cold shudder swept over Sara, and she tugged the throw tighter around her, its warmth unable to counteract the chill that came from the inside-out.

Brain.  Appealing to him intellectually?  Does the heart represent her, and the brain him?  Or does she see herself as his intellectual equal?

Leg.  Hmm.  Support?  Walking?  Sexual icon?  Why the left first?  Is she left-handed?  If she's anything like Grissom, it could be word-based.  Left.  Latin for left is 'sinister.'  An admission?  Or an accusation?  Is Grissom sinister in her eyes, or are the victims?  

Or maybe it's English.  Simpler.  Left.  Maybe he left her.  No, too pat for her.  Too pedestrian, no pun intended.  Maybe that's what the leg means:  the victims are too pedestrian for him.

Why are the feet missing?  Why's the hand missing from the arm?  She's smart, this one.  No prints.  But not smart enough.  She's not from the lab or she'd know about the Compliance database we use to exclude us in case of accidental contamination.  So she's not in law enforcement, either.  Not a lawyer.

Forensics junkie?  No.  She'd know we'd keep records of our own DNA, blood work, and prints.  No.  It's him.  It's all about him as a man, not as a scientist.  

"Hey," Grissom mumbled, wandering into the room dressed only in a pair of boxers.  "I thought maybe you'd left," he said, sitting next to her on the couch.  "It felt strange to wake up alone," he said wistfully, reaching out to trace a curling strand of hair that was pushed behind her ear.

"I wouldn't leave without telling you," she reassured him.  "Look at this.  I think a pattern is starting to form," she said excitedly.

Sara found it harder to explain than she had thought.  All the competing theories seemed discrete in her mind, but tangled when she tried to verbalize them.  

But Grissom was following her train of thought, nodding as she drew lines and arrows connecting clues, showing directionality.  He turned to her, a broad smile pulling his lips, crinkling the skin around his eyes.  His heart always swelled with pride when she did this.  

Most forensic scientists relied on deduction.  A leads to B, B leads to C, C to D, and so forth.  The gifted scientists also had the gift of induction.  And then there were the scientists who also saw the art behind the data.  For them, clues were like brush strokes on a canvas that painted a picture, telling a story.  The missing strokes were as obvious to them as those present, if given adequate time to study the picture.

"So the next one will be the left leg of victim two, if the pattern holds.  Who'll get it?" he asked, seeing that the pattern of the recipients was anything but clear at this point.  "You've gotten two.  Catherine and Heather one each.  Think Catherine will get the next one?"

"I don't know.  I know there's got to be a pattern.  But she's using the mail for some of this, so we can't necessarily rely on the timing."

"That would be frustrating for her, I'm sure," Grissom mused.  "She may start delivering more of them.  That would be a monumental mistake on her part."

"You're right.  We'd know the pattern by then, and be able to predict where she'll be.  But she seems too smart for that."

"She may be smart, but she's obsessed.  It could easily overwhelm her logic in time.  She'll get confident, even cocky, the longer she goes without being caught.  She'll think she's invincible.  Pride goeth before a fall," Grissom quoted.

"What women do you know outside of law enforcement?" Sara asked.  "Maybe even just someone you met, who seemed ... interested ... even if you weren't."

"Sara, it could be anybody.  I don't remember every woman I've ever met.  Not even just the past few years.  All the victims, the families, the witnesses, the suspects."

"Who have you spent enough time around such that they would think that they know you?"

"Heather, Teri ..."

"Not Teri Miller.  Maybe a target, but not a suspect.  She knows too much about forensics," Sara said, shaking her head.

"Okay.  Maybe Dr. Gilbert."

"From the Deaf College?" Sara asked, a hint of coolness tinging her words.

"Yes.  We went to dinner once," he admitted.  "I had gone to the college to tell her that the case was closed.  We talked for a while out on the commons, then decided to go grab a bite to eat," he told her, trying to make it sound as innocuous as possible.

"Did you sleep with her, too?" Sara asked, also trying to sound matter-of-fact.

"No! ... This is too much," Grissom said, pushing himself up off the couch, retreating into the kitchen, ostensibly to make some coffee.

"We've got to be able to talk about this, if we're going to solve this case," Sara said, following him into the kitchen, effectively trapping him in the galley.

"How would you like it if every man in your life was suddenly assumed to be a sexual partner?  How would you like it if people started talking like that's all there was to you?  I don't know which is more embarrassing – the truth or what people are perceiving."

"What's the truth?" Sara asked.

"The truth is that I've only had sex once since you've been here," he admitted once his back was turned to her.  He busied himself preparing the coffee, then stood to watch it brew, unable to turn and face her right now.

"With Heather," Sara added.

"Yes.  Once.  With Heather," he stammered.

"Why her?" Sara asked, honestly curious.

"I thought I'd lost you.  I thought I was losing my hearing.  I thought I would lose my job.  Everything was coming down around me.  I needed ...  I needed ..."

"You needed something to make you feel alive," Sara said, her voice falling to just above a whisper.

"I guess," he shrugged.  "She seemed to understand what was happening to me.  I didn't have to hide anything.  And I knew there'd be no strings attached."

"But there were other women."

"A few other dates.  Nothing serious."

"Maybe they wanted something serious."

"I doubt it.  They were the ones that lost interest.  ... Shit, that didn't come out right.  It's not like I was all that interested, Sara.  They were ... uh ..."

"Diversions?" she asked, an eyebrow raised, though he wasn't facing her to see it.

"Yes, I suppose so.  Diversions.  From work.  From ... you," he said lowly, his voice trailing off.

"Me?"

"I was always, um, interested.  But you were relatively new here.  I didn't want you to think ... I didn't want anyone to think ... that, uh ..."

"That I slept my way to the top?" she asked.

"Or that I brought you here for strictly personal reasons," he said, finally turning to her to offer her a cup of coffee.

"Why did you bring me here?"

"Because I needed a good CSI ... and for strictly personal reasons," he added, smiling sheepishly.

"She doesn't know that we knew each other before, or I probably would have been the first victim," Sara posited.

"That's likely," he agreed, taking a sip of coffee to push down the bile that was rising in his throat. The thought of receiving Sara's body parts in the mail made him dizzy and nauseated.  "I need to sit down," he said weakly.

"You okay?" she asked, seeing him pale noticeably.

"No," he answered, sitting unsteadily on a barstool at the counter.  "She knows who you are.  She knows where you live, where you work, and that you're here with me now."

"I'll be careful," Sara promised, moving to stand next to him, rubbing his shoulder lightly.

"She's insane, Sara.  But smart.  I don't know how to protect you.  Maybe you should go away for a while.  Maybe go visit your parents."

"And what if she follows me there?"

"God," Grissom exhaled, dropping his face into his hands.  "And I wouldn't be there, if she tried to hurt you."

"My protector," she smiled, not intending any farce.  "Shadow Man."

"You think I'm being ridiculous," he said, his male pride feeling a bit bruised.

"Neanderthal perhaps, but not ridiculous," she said, kissing him next to his ear.  

"I can't stand the thought of anything happening to you.  I waited so long ... too long.  Now that you're here, I'm not sure I can ever go back to being without you," he said softly, a bit embarrassed at his emotionality.

"Let's go do something to get our minds off of this for a little while," she suggested.  "Maybe a movie.  Or a walk in the park," she said, smiling at him.

"How about a ride on the roller coaster?  It's not like we have to be careful anymore.  After last night, half the police force probably knows ... and all the lab," he said with resignation.

"Still, there's no reason to make an issue of it.  Nothing inappropriate in public," she suggested.

Grissom turned to smile at her, laying his hand against the side of her face, as she leaned into it.  

"Let's get cleaned up and go somewhere.  You choose."

"We could shower together to save time," she grinned.

"How is it we've never done that before?" he asked, leading her back to the bathroom.

"All things in their own time," she answered, letting the light blanket drop on the floor.

* * * * *

Adjusting the scarf covering her hair, the Angel of Death made her way across the parking lot, her parcel held firmly in one hand. She gave her head a disgusted shake as she approached the right door.

The whore's in there now, doing God only knows what to my poor Gil. 

She shrugged sympathetically as she thought of the lewd things she was forcing him to endure. What had the man done to deserve such a fate?

 It would be an easy task to break in and kill her.  If Gil saw me do it, I wouldn't have to bother with the butchering.  Not that I mind the work, but it's such a bother getting the bodies to the house.

No, she couldn't kill her yet.  It was essential that Gil reject her first.  Before she died, the whore had to know that type of pain, the agony only heartbreak could bring.  Only once she suffered that emotional anguish would she show the tramp what physical pain was.

Still, she was fair.  If the bitch backed off now, her death would be easy.  Well, easier.  She had too many transgressions to deserve a merciful death. 

This is your last warning.  If you don't heed it, the consequences will be harsh.

* * * * *

"We should probably keep in mind for the future that showering together does not save time," Grissom noted, standing in front of the mirror, combing his hair.  Sara was still toweling, just stepping out of the enclosure.

"Well, it kinda did.  We normally make love, then shower.  This way, we kill two birds with one stone," she laughed.

"We just made love this morning," Gil protested, as though it had been a hardship.

"Sorry!  Didn't know there was a schedule," she teased.

"I'm not a teenager, you know," he said mock-seriously, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

"Thank God.  If you were, that shower wouldn't have lasted 30 seconds."

"At least there is some benefit in growing older," Grissom groused.

"Like fine wine, you're getting better with age," she said, kissing the gap between his shoulder blades, raising goose bumps on his skin.

"I hope you still feel that way a month from now, or a year, or five years," he said, shaking off the effects of her touch.

"Does it bother you that much?" she asked gently, molding herself to his back, running her arms under his to join at his chest.

"Yes.  Sometimes," he admitted.  "One day, you'll realize you're waking up next to a much older man.  After that, you'll find ways to avoid being intimate.  It will eventually begin to disgust you."

"You'll never disgust me," she said incredulously.  "Do you think that's all I'm interested in?  Just sex?"

"I didn't mean that.  Sex isn't all there is between us, but it's part of it," he sighed, putting his hands down on the bathroom counter, leaning on his hands, his head hanging down.  "Someone young, energetic, and handsome man will come along ..."

"Your mind intrigues me as much as your body," she said lowly, reaching around to twist him to face her.

"Okay, so a young, energetic, handsome, smart man will come along," he said sadly.

"Grissom ..." she chided, each hand framing a side of his face, forcing him to look at her.  "Look at me.  Listen to me.  I'm not a fortune teller.  I don't know what the future holds for either one of us.  For all I know the next new CSI may be drop-dead gorgeous and brilliant, impossible for you to resist.  But I refuse to worry about that now.  I'm not going to waste whatever time we have together miserable about something that hasn't happened yet."

"You're gorgeous, brilliant, and impossible to resist," he said, punctuating each word with a brush of his lips against hers.

* * * * *

"Just think of it as an experiment in momentum and inertia," Grissom chuckled as they sat side by side on the edge of the bed, putting on their shoes.

"I just never felt the need to be the guinea pig," Sara shot back.  

"Don't tell me you're afraid to ride a roller coaster!  Big, bad Sara Sidle?"

"I'm not afraid!  I'm cautiously aware of the possibilities when you combine speed, height, torque, momentum, and illiterate carnies."

"Sara, this coaster is run by the casino.  It's scrupulously maintained," Grissom chided her, opening the door to the townhouse, waiting for her to walk through.

"What's this?  Someone leave their trash at your door?" she asked, pointing at a common black plastic trash bag.

"Sara, don't touch it," Grissom warned, grabbing her arm as she reached for it.

"Look, there's a note," Sara said, leaning down and cocking her head sideways to line up with the paper that was taped onto the side of the bag, reading it aloud to Grissom.

"My poor, simple Sara,

"You cannot take a hint, can you?  I am not an unreasonable woman, but you are beginning to try my patience.  I would have thought even someone with your limited mental capabilities would have gotten the message by now.  However, it appears that you are as stupid as you are unattractive, so I will make this short and to the point, bitch: Back off my man.

_"I tried to be nice and warn you off.  I cannot understand how you avoided being fired for being impaired on the job, or for killing that drug dealer, but I imagine Gil got a nice 'reward' for saving your ass.  I will not warn you again, whore._

_"Yours truly,_

"The Angel of Death" 

Sara stood and looked in every direction, just as Grissom had already done as she was reading.

"She's here, somewhere, watching," Sara whispered hoarsely.  "She's going to try to kill me."

"Sara," Grissom said, pulling her into a reassuring hug, before leading her back into his townhouse, double-locking the door behind them.  

"I'll call Brass," he said, as she stood distracted at the edge of the window, peering out towards the street.

* * * * *

The Angel of Death giggled as she watched the skinny whore read the note, savoring the look of panic that came over the brunette's hideous features.  Setting down her binoculars, she paused long enough to take a sip of her coffee.

At least now her poor Gil would be free from the clutches of the witch.  The Angel of Death had clearly stated that dear Gil was hers.  Now that he knew she was watching over him, willing to forgive his trespasses, he would surely dump that piece of trash.

Life would be good from here on out.  A lifetime of pain and suffering and loneliness was a small price to pay to finally receive her reward.  Sweet Gil was a treasure; it was only right that she had to earn his love.

And earned it she had.  Now that he belonged to her, the Angel swore that she'd protect him.  No more would the whores and bitches try to lure him away.  No more would he be distracted by their vulgar offerings.

Her love was pure.  She'd demonstrated it in blood.

When the bitch stood up, the Angel of Death lifted the binoculars back up, smiling deeply as she anticipated the upcoming show.

My sweet Gil will dump her now, in plain site of anyone watching.  Too bad the street isn't filled with people.  The slut deserves a public humiliation for her evil ways.  At least I get to savor it.

The Angel hissed when she saw Grissom wrap his arms protectively around the trollop. She felt the bile rise when he pulled her into the townhouse, checking the street for danger before closing the door.

NO!  The goddamned bastard!  He's still protecting her.  He's protecting a fucking whore!

Slamming her fist into the dashboard, the Angel ignored the pain.  It was nothing compared to what the Bastard had just inflicted on her.  She thought he had been different, that he wasn't one of those coarse, crude men, but the Bastard was just like them.

The Whore hadn't tricked him.  The Bastard willing went to her.

You think I'm a fool?  Do you think I'll let you get away with this?  No one, no one, plays me for a fool.  You're both going to pay for this.  Pay dearly.

Finishing her coffee, the Angel of Death daintily wiped her lips, checking to make sure her lipstick was intact.  After verifying her makeup looked fine, she crumpled up the napkin, stuck it into the empty cup and deposited both into the trash bag.

Cleanliness is next to godliness.

_Pulling into traffic, the Angel considered what to do with the remaining body parts in her freezer.  The grocery store was going to be having a sale on meat next week.  She really should clean it out before she stocked up on meat._

TO BE CONTINUED ...


	7. How Much is that Politician in the Windo...

**Title:** Jigsaw  


**Author: **Burked and Mossley  


**Rating:** PG-13, just to be safe  


**Disclaimers: **We have no rights to CSI. It belongs to CBS, Alliance Atlantis, Anthony Zuicker and any number of persons and entities other than us.  


**A/N: **This story is the second part of a two-parter begun with **Burked's** "_To Sleep, Perchance to Dream_." A little of this fic may not be clear if you haven't read it, but it's not critical. 

Many thanks to Marlou and Ann for consenting to beta for us. 

_"I'm tired of playing games with you, Gil Grissom. I think it's time I show you just how serious I am." Angela Wyeth, the Angel of Death, "To Sleep, Perchance to Dream"  
_

* * * * *

**Chapter 7 - How Much Is That Politician in the Window? **  


"You think this is some sort of game?" Brass shouted at Sara, who didn't react.  


"No," she simply stated.  


"Do you have some sort of martyr complex? Or are you just suicidal? I know you're not stupid, so that can't be it. If you think I'm going to let you be a decoy, you can just re-think, missy!" Brass barked at her.  


"I told her she should leave, but she brought up a good point. This so-called Angel of Death could follow her. She's obviously stalking Sara."  


"I'm just as safe here as anywhere."  


"No, you're not. Even if you had a police escort 24/7, she could still get to you. She could blow your head off as easy as that," Brass said, snapping his fingers.  


Grissom scowled at Brass's heavy-handed tactics, but had to admit that he hadn't done any better.  


"Just my point," she said defiantly. "She's going to go after me anyway, so we might as well use it to our advantage."  


"Look, I've got friends who work in the Witness Protection Program. They could tell you how to get lost so that nobody could find you. Come back when it's all over."  


"What about Catherine? And Heather? What about Dr. Gilbert, Dr. Miller? Are you going to hide all of them? What about Grissom? There's no telling when this psycho will turn on him."  


"You can jump in and help any time now," Brass said in frustration to Grissom.  


Holding up both hands, Grissom told him, "I don't know what makes you think I have any pull here."  


Brass lifted an eyebrow, then shot Grissom an unmistakable 'puh-leeze' expression.  


"It doesn't work like that," Grissom huffed.  


"Look, as long as I'm here, it looks like she's going to focus on me. That could help you find her," Sara repeated.  


"You have a fixation with playing decoy, don't you?" Brass barked. "Gonna get you in trouble, one of these days."  


"I'm already in trouble," she said heavily. "If the Angel of Death doesn't get me, the Sheriff will. She's seen to that."  


"Vega told me you were cleared from the Rodgers thing. But this note is ambiguous; she plainly says she doesn't know how you kept from being fired for killing the drug dealer. Considering she's stalking you, that could be taken to mean that she witnessed it," Brass said.  


"You can't honestly believe ...!" Grissom began bellowing.  


Holding up a silencing hand, Brass continued, "Or it could be taken to mean that she set the whole thing up to frame you. How did she know you were impaired? Even if she's following you, she would have no way of knowing what was going on in your head, unless she arranged it. There's plenty of circumstantial evidence that she's the one who contaminated your mushrooms."  


"Yeah, she's smart. Doesn't actually admit anything. And even if we catch her, and she confesses everything, I'm still probably going to get fired. That letter will be evidence, used in court. Between that and the fact that two different body parts have been sent to me at Grissom's house, our relationship will be public knowledge."  


"You two had to know that could happen," Brass said with surprising empathy, smiling kindly at each of them in turn, his anger at least temporarily displaced.  


"I never expected someone to make it sound so ... sordid," Grissom answered, shrugging helplessly.  


"The Sheriff would probably think that anyway," Brass said truthfully. "That either you sexually harassed her into it, or that she's sleeping her way into a promotion. You had to know that's how it would look."  


"Why can't it look like two people who want to be together?" Sara asked.  


"Because you work for him, my dear."  


"Probably not for much longer," Sara said with a smile of resignation.  


"Probably not," Brass agreed.  


"There's got to be something we can do," Grissom said, with an equal mixture of frustration and desperation.  


"You better take this to the Sheriff yourself, before he gets wind of it."  


"Fall on my sword, so to speak," Grissom grumbled.  


"It's possible that he'll only fire one of you, if you come clean," Brass said hopefully.  


"What if we quit seeing each other?" Sara asked.  


Grissom gaped at her, the fear and hurt evident in his eyes. Brass looked down at his hands, uncomfortable at being a witness to their torment.  


"She's opened Pandora's Box with this note," Brass said. "There's no way to go back. You might as well stay now. No reason to let her take everything away from you," Brass said more gently than would be expected, looking at his gruff exterior.  


"God, Grissom, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I just ... All I wanted ..." Sara trailed off, angrily swiping a tear that had escaped.  


"Jim, will you excuse us?" Grissom said, pulling her into his chest.   


She buried her face in his neck, needing to feel him, to smell him. He could feel her struggling against the emotions. He knew what she was doing, since he'd done it ever since he could remember. She wasn't just trying to hide her emotions, but battle them to the death.  


"Don't," he said softly. "Don't do it, Sara. Cry. Scream. Let it out," he said, pulling her in tighter, until he could feel every sob, every hiccup, every gasping breath.  


"What are we gonna do?" she forced out.  


"What we do best," Grissom said resolutely. "Let's go to work."  


* * * * *  


"This really chaps my ass," Brass growled as he plopped down in the chair he'd pushed near where Catherine was sitting. He'd closed his office door, piquing Catherine's curiosity.  


"What happened, Jim?"  


"I've known Gil Grissom for, what?, 15, 16 years or so? Whatever. Anyway, a long time. To be honest, even though I respect the guy, I always felt a little sorry for him. I may have screwed up my marriage, but at least I had one to screw up. He never had anybody."  


"Yeah, I feel the same way," Catherine said, nodding sadly.  


"Have you ever seen them together? Him and Sara, I mean."  


"Every day," Catherine said in confusion.  


"No. I mean really together. I did. I just came from his house. You can tell he's crazy about her."  


"He always has been. He just hid it – even from himself sometimes."  


"Yeah, well he didn't hide it tonight. And she seems to feel the same way."  


"Yeah, I think you're right."  


"Catherine, he's almost 50 years old. He was lucky to find her. What are the chances he'll ever find anyone else who thinks he's worth hanging onto?"  


"I'd say the odds are approaching zero."  


"The serial killer they're after is doing everything she can to ruin it for them. She left a note with the leg she put outside Grissom's door today. She's naming names. This whole thing is about to blow up in their faces. I don't know if they'll be able to make it through and stay together."  


"Shit," Catherine huffed, slumping noticeably.  


"Yeah," Brass agreed. "We gotta find this bitch quick. She's threatening Sara. She's messing up their lives, not to mention the fact that she's already killed and butchered two women."  


"At least two. We don't know about the last two parts."  


"Other than doing our jobs, I don't know what to do to help them," Brass grumbled.  


"Me, either. But I'll think about it. This is about politics – something that Gil and Sara are both almost completely clueless about."  


"But we aren't," Brass said, smiling conspiratorially.  


"No, we aren't."  


"Know anybody rich or powerful? Someone the Sheriff might listen to?"  


"I might," she said distractedly, the wheels obviously already set in motion.  


* * * * *  


"Don't bother locking your car doors tomorrow, Cath," Sara said, as she poured herself a cup of coffee. Grissom smiled knowingly, once again feeling the swell of pride in Sara's innate ability to see patterns where others saw gibberish.  


"You planning on boosting it?" Nick asked.  


"No, but the Angel of Death might be leaving her a little present at her house, if I'm right. She might mail it, or she might leave it in her car. Probably a right arm, minus the hand."  


"Care to bet on that?" Warrick teased.  


"Put your money where your mouth is," Sara shot back, with a grin.  


"I don't gamble anymore. But, if I did, I damn sure wouldn't bet against you!"  


"Smart man," Grissom said, "On both counts. Sara may have hit on the pattern, or at least part of it."  


Sara pushed the white board closer to the table and drew out a chart showing each day, two body parts per day. She had realized that her earlier chart showing one the first day, and three the next was wrong because she hadn't gone home to find the box containing the brain on the day the killer had intended.  


"The first two parts, a heart and a brain were from the first victim, Charlotte. Either the second victim wasn't dead yet, or not butchered yet, so both parts were from Charlotte. But after that, each day we've received one from each."  


"Was that meant to confuse us by having more than one source?" Warrick asked.  


"Maybe. But I think that most, if not all, of this is a message. The note she left me was sort of a Rosetta Stone, in a way. Sending one part of each victim is her way of saying she's fair."  


"Fair?" Nick squawked, his eyes impossibly wide.  


"In her mind, yes," Grissom agreed.  


"The heart was first because she's fixated on Grissom, and the heart symbolizes love," Catherine surmised.  


"Exactly," Sara said. "The brain was next, because she's intelligent. She sees the intellectual plane as a source of commonality with Grissom."  


"The leg?" Warrick asked, not seeing what they could possibly have to do with Grissom.  


"Possibly a sexual reference, since men are often attracted to shapely legs. But my theory is that they represent movement, that she's approaching him," Sara suggested.  


"The arm?" Nick said.  


"Well, with the other arm, which should be sent or delivered to Catherine tomorrow, they represent reaching, grasping, holding."  


"Okay, Kreskin, what will come after the arm?" Nick quipped.  


"The second victim's other leg. The order is left/right for paired parts."  


"Significance?"  


"She might be left-handed. Or it could go back to the ancient notion of left being evil."  


"The Latin for 'on the left' is sinister," Grissom said.  


"Right. I mean, correct," Sara laughed. "I doubt she's referring to herself. She obviously sees the victims as being evil. She certainly sees me that way," Sara admitted.  


"The Latin word 'sinister' also means unlucky," Warrick supplied.  


"The victims were unlucky in love," Catherine nodded.  


"What's after we've gotten all the arms and legs?"  


"Probably the torso, because it's the center, what holds it all together. All that's left is the head, hands and feet. They're last because they identify the victims as individuals, which would have clouded the message. I don't know what order they'll come in, but I'd guess the heads will be last," Sara said.  


"Why is she using a pattern? Doesn't she know that it's a clue?" Nick asked.  


"She's telling us that she's organized. She may be obsessive-compulsive, but I wouldn't count on it," Grissom answered. "She could break the pattern any time, if she senses that we're onto her."  


"Couldn't we just stake out Catherine's house and car?" Warrick asked.  


"We will, but like I said, she could break the pattern if she senses danger. Or she might just mail the parts from now on. I know I would," Grissom answered.  


"How does she have the time to do all of this?"  


"She may have money. Or maybe she's on vacation – this shouldn't take more than two weeks, unless more victims turn up. Or maybe she works at home, on her own schedule."  


"Does any of this sound like anyone you know?" Catherine asked Gil.  


"No."  


"What about your fan mail?" Catherine asked. All of them occasionally received letters, usually from victims' family members, but sometimes from people who had seen them on the news, or read about them. There were always a few that sounded fine on the surface, but were creepy nonetheless. The typical Las Vegas citizen had neither the time nor the inclination to send fan mail to forensic scientists.  


"I've gone through four years of it," Grissom answered. "There are some from wackos, but none that I can say sound particularly threatening."  


"Let's go through them again. Now that we have a note from her, maybe we can spot some similarities," Sara suggested.  


"Sounds good. Catherine, Al is sending us the plastic bag and note. Get the bag to Jacqui first, then Hodges. The note goes to Ronnie, but tell him to be careful with it, unless he wants Jacqui babysitting him again."  


"Got it."  


"You guys have to handle the rest of the cases. Split them between you. Just concentrate on processing the scenes tonight, so we can get them all started. If anything looks like it's going to eat some time, let me know. We'll pull in somebody from the swing shift, if we have to."  


"Not day shift?" Warrick asked, bemused.  


"Not if I can help it," Grissom answered. "I don't want to owe Eckley anything."  


"Let's do it," Nick said, punching his fist against Warrick's as they left the room.  


"Hey, I just wanted to tell you guys that I'm sorry about all this. I know it must be embarrassing to have to discuss your private lives. It would be hard enough for one of the rest of us, but for you two it must be torture," Catherine said sympathetically.  


"Thank you," they both said, simultaneously.  


"Jinx," Sara laughed, looking at Grissom, who had no idea what she was talking about, but returned her infectious smile anyway.  


Catherine's eyes darted back and forth between them, watching them look at each other and smile. It was then that she knew what she needed to do.  


* * * * *   


"Hey, I know it's getting late, but are you still going to be at work for a while?" Catherine asked into the cell phone.  


"Yes, I will."  


"Cool. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. I have a big favor to ask."  


Catherine hung up and sighed. She kept promising herself that she wasn't going to have anything to do with him anymore. But somehow his life and hers kept intersecting.   


_He wasn't there when I needed him. And now all he's done is complicate my life. He's more trouble in a way than Eddie ever thought of being. He owes me this much. After all, he is my father_.  


Catherine walked into the Rampart like she owned it. One day, she probably would, though the idea didn't really appeal to her. She saw him waiting for her at the bar, a fresh drink sitting in front of him.  


"Hi, Mugs. Didn't know if I'd ever see you again," he said wistfully.  


"Neither did I," Catherine said, sitting down and ordering a Diet Coke.  


"What's this favor you need from me?" he asked, not appearing a bit hurt that she was only here because of what he could do for her.  


"I need you to use your influence with the Sheriff."  


"I don't really know him. Met him once when he first got here, but I don't have any sort of relationship with him," Sam Braun told her.  


"Please, Sam. Give me a freaking break. It's not necessary for you to know him. All that's necessary is for him to know you, who you are. You are part of the backbone of this town. Nothing around here happens if you say it doesn't happen."  


"I'm not God, Catherine."  


"No, but you're rich and powerful, and that's all he needs to know."  


"Okay. Let's just say I'm able to get his ear. What am I supposed to put in it?"  


"Remember my boss, Grissom? He and one of the other CSIs are seeing each other. That wouldn't necessarily be the end of the world, but he happens to be her boss, too."  


"I assume there's some rule against fraternization?" he asked.  


"Not really. But it's frowned on. They're working a case where the perp is a nut who's got the hots for Grissom. She's trying to break them up. She's letting the world know that Grissom and Sara Sidle are seeing each other, making it sound bad."  


"So the Sheriff would want it to all go away," Sam nodded.  


"Yeah. He can't afford to lose Grissom, really, but he can get rid of Sara. Or at least make them so miserable that they break up and she leaves anyway. I'd like you to put a little bug in his ear that whispers to him that you wouldn't like that."  


"I'm hardly a matchmaker. He's going to wonder why I'm interested in their personal lives."  


"No, but they're good at their jobs. There's no reason to lose either one. They won't let their relationship interfere with work, I promise you. Look, Sam, do this for me, please. I've never asked you for anything. But I'm asking you for this."  


"I guess it must really be important to you, if you'd come here after everything that's happened. But I have to get something in return."  


Catherine felt a flash of fury heat her face. In her estimation, the best he could ask for was for them to be even. It galled her that he would want anything more.  


"Name it," she said, holding her tongue.  


"You and Lindsey come out to the ranch the next weekend you're off. Let her ride the horse I bought her. Let me be a grandfather, even if I was never a father to you."  


"If you protect them, I'll do it," she said, holding out her hand to seal the bargain.  


"Consider it done," he said confidently.  


* * * * *  


She dabbed angrily at the tears rolling down her cheeks, embarrassed that she couldn't prevent them. It wasn't like her to get so worked up like this, but her whole life had been turned upside down.  


_Will we ever be able to survive this? Or is this going to be enough to tear us apart? God, I can't imagine going back to being alone. We waited too long for this. I won't let her tear us apart.  
_

Giving her head a firm shake, she made up her mind. No one was going to break them up. Not after all they had to endure to get this far. Come hell or high water, no one was going to get between them.  


_I'll tear the bitch apart with my bare hands first. Once she's gone, I can rehabilitate Gil. I refuse to believe I've wasted my time on him._  


The Angel of Death went to the bookcase, pulling out the three-ring binder on the end. A quick check of the index revealed the numbers of the photo albums she needed. People thought her organization was a bit much, but it really helped when you needed to find something in a hurry.  


Walking along the shelves, she grabbed the photo albums and headed for the dining room table. Shooing a cat off of the chair, she brushed the shed fur from the frilly pink seat cushion before taking a seat.  


She spent the better part of an hour sorting through the pictures she needed. Afterwards, she went to the computer to type up her letters. The Whore's note was easy to write. It was simply a statement of facts.  


Her missive to her sweet Gil was harder to write. She needed to let him know the truth, but the truth could be painful. She hated the idea of inflicting pain on him, but he had to know the facts. He hadn't listened to her earlier messages.  


_Well, a picture is worth a thousand words. These pictures should show him everything he needs to know. Let's see him defend the whore once he sees these._  


* * * * *  


_TBC_


	8. Charity Begins at Home

**Title:** Jigsaw  


**Author: **Burked and Mossley  


**Rating:** PG-13, just to be safe  


**Disclaimers: **We have no rights to CSI. It belongs to CBS, Alliance Atlantis, Anthony Zuicker and any number of persons and entities other than us.  


**A/N: **This story is the second part of a two-parter begun with **Burked's** "_To Sleep, Perchance to Dream_." A little of this fic may not be clear if you haven't read it, but it's not critical. 

Many thanks to Marlou and Ann for consenting to beta for us. 

_"I'm tired of playing games with you, Gil Grissom. I think it's time I show you just how serious I am." Angela Wyeth, the Angel of Death, "To Sleep, Perchance to Dream"  
_

* * * * *

**Chapter 8 – Charity Begins at Home  
**

Lying against opposite ends of the couch, their bare legs intertwined, Gil and Sara were sipping their 'morning' coffee in the waning light of late afternoon.   


"You know who's next, other than Catherine that is," Grissom said. "You want me to send the guys again?"  


"Heather. Right leg. Second victim," Sara said, not yet answering his ultimate question. "Why do you think she broke into Heather's house? That is, if the prowler was her."  


"I believe it was. Maybe to case it. Maybe to kill her. Heather might have been next on the list of victims," Grissom said, starting to feel the burden of being the romantic equivalent of Typhoid Mary once again.  


"Not to kill her. Not yet, anyway. That would have messed up the plan, the pattern."  


"She'll probably have to abandon it soon, anyway," Grissom said, chuckling lightly despite the subject when Sara drew her toe across the bottom of his foot.  


"I'll go. Alone," Sara said, finally answering Gil's earlier question. It took him a moment to process what she was referring to, then another moment to get over his shock.  


"Why you? Why alone?" he asked softly, enjoying the feel of silky softness as he ran the side of his foot the length of her leg.   


"I probably need to. I've got to deal with this sooner or later. I'd rather do it now. Get past it. I have to be alone, though, just in case I don't deal with it in a constructive manner!" she chortled.  


"You? Lose control? Nooooo!" Grissom teased, sitting up. He quickly grabbed her legs and pulled her into a straddle, his chuckle dying in his throat as he dragged his hands lightly up her arms to cup the bottom of her jaw line on each side, where it met the soft flesh of her neck.  


Pulling her into a gentle but sensual kiss, he let his hands succumb to gravity, though they were unwilling to part from her body. His lips never leaving hers, their tongues now wrestling, his hands curved around to her back. As before, they started at the top and slid down smoothly, finally resting on her hips.  


He instinctively pulled on her backside, pressing into her from the front. It amazed him, and sometimes frightened him, that no matter what the circumstances, all it took was the feel of her skin to arouse him. If she was close enough to touch, he wanted her.  


Having just awakened a little less than an hour earlier, they were already wearing very little – boxers for him, and a camisole and panties for her. It took less than a second to be rid of the flimsy impediments.  


Sara reclaimed her position on his lap, this time her legs tucked under her. As the tempo of their kisses and touches increased, she lifted herself. Grissom took the opportunity to kiss the breasts that framed his face, and to guide himself to her opening.  


"I don't understand how you do this to me," he moaned, as she gently worked them into full contact.  


Sara interrupted the passion, suddenly looking around the room, including the ceiling.  


"What is it?" Grissom asked breathlessly, their ardor already beginning to pump adrenaline and testosterone into his system.  


"Remember Nicky's stalker? He had cameras in the house. She could be watching us now," Sara answered nervously.  


"Let her. Let her see that it's you I want," Grissom said, picking up where he left off.  


"Videotape, Grissom. Remember how Nick felt when we were watching the tapes? And there wasn't anything in the slightest embarrassing on them. You want everyone in the lab watching us doing this?" she asked quietly in his ear, lest they were being audiotaped.  


"It's too late to worry about that," he said, burying his face into the crook of her neck, driving her to lean her head back, willing him to leave no area of the sensitive flesh untended.   


She matched the rhythm of the music in her mind, getting lost in the feel of him, reality fading into a distant memory.   


Each time was different, and this time wasn't a gentle exploration, full of reverence and adoration. She needed to know that she was the only one he desired, and he needed to show her.   


Soon he could no longer tolerate the relatively passive limitations of their position, and he pushed her over on the couch, needing to be able to more forcefully answer his body's demands. She had grabbed the edge of the afghan, pulling it down to partially cover them, but it slid unceremoniously to the floor, unable to find purchase on their writhing bodies.  


He was so intent on her, so divorced from external stimuli, that he felt her rather than heard her as she began her instinctual pleading. He had to block her out, or she'd drive him over the edge too soon.   


He took both of her hands and pushed them back over her head to open her body up to him and to keep her from touching him. He held them there with one hand while his other disobeyed him, exploring all it could reach.  


She shuddered beneath him, pulling her hands free to run them quickly down his back, until she could pull at him, urging him, her shouted demands becoming more insistent.  


All vestiges of human rationality left him as he acted out centuries of genetic programming intended to ensure the perpetuation of the species.  


"Please," was the only comprehensible thing she said aloud, pulling desperately at him. Every muscle in her body began to tense.  


"Ummm," she moaned into his kiss as their bodies began to slow, each intent on savoring every waning second.  


He was content to bask in their afterglow, coherent speech still impossible for him. But he felt the separation keenly when they parted. He lifted up, propping himself on one elbow, allowing the other hand to softly direct the sweaty curls away from her face.  


"I want you to know," he began, swallowing hard and closing his eyes briefly, asking himself if this was really the time, "how I feel about you."  


"Tell me," she whispered encouragingly. Even after all that had happened between them, he rarely spoke to her of his feelings. He preferred to show her, which was enough for her. But she knew the significance of his finally feeling able to verbalize it.  


"I love you," he said quickly, afraid that he'd lose his courage. It didn't come out as romantic as he would have wished, and he was afraid that she would think that he didn't mean it, that it was just a product of their lovemaking.  


Sara grinned broadly, bringing a warmth to him that was altogether different from the passion they had just shared, but just as satisfying emotionally.  


"I love you, too," she returned. She pulled his face down to her, adoring him with kisses of love rather than passion.  


"Please don't ever leave me," he pleaded in a hushed whisper, returning her kisses, then rubbing his fingers lightly over her swollen lips.  


"I couldn't. I tried once. A long time ago. I couldn't do it then, and I didn't even know yet what I'd be missing," she said softly. "I've always loved you."  


* * * * *  


"God, Gil!" Catherine said almost desperately on the phone.   


"I assume you got a package," Grissom said, rolling slowly out of bed. He padded towards the kitchen to make coffee.  


"In today's mail. Not just a package. It had a note in an envelope taped on the front of the box. Gil, it's bad. Really bad."  


"What does it say?" he asked, leaning back into Sara as she wrapped her arms around him from the back.  


"It's too long to read over the phone. Besides, I'm not sure I want to read it again. I came into the lab when Stevie picked up the box for the coroner. I scanned it for you. I'll email it to your home addy."  


"Okay. Who's Stevie?" Grissom asked.  


"Day shift diener for Telgenhoff. You've talked to him on the phone."  


"Oh. I didn't remember his name," Grissom said, walking over to the computer to boot it up.   


"Listen, I've got to go. Lindsey will be home from school in a few minutes. I'll see you tonight," Catherine said, hanging up, anxious to get off before he – and presumably Sara – saw the letter.  


Sara brought them two cups of coffee as he typed in his username and password, then accessed his emails. The most recent was Catherine's; he opened the attachment and they read it together on the screen.   


_"To the Godforsaken Whore,   
  
_

_"You have gone too far this time. It was bad enough you were using helpless Gil, taking advantage of his lonely nature with your vulgar sexual advances, but now you have turned him against me. For that, you must suffer. Your death will be neither swift nor painless.  
  
_

_"You may have tricked him, but I know that you are screwing your way into a career, using the man I love. Do you have no morals whatsoever? Did you honestly think you could fool anyone? Your charade is as transparent as it is pathetic.  
  
_

_"Why would you be screwing a man practically old enough to be your father? You are far too shallow to appreciate my dear Gil for who he really is. No, you are promising him crass favors in return for keeping your job.  
  
_

_"I recognize you for what you are, you unclean whore. Do not think you can confuse me, the way you do sweet Gil. He is a weak man, easily swayed by your filthy offerings of perverted sex. You may not care what the consequences of your affair will do to him. I do care, though, and I will do whatever it takes to protect him from you and from himself.  
  
_

_"I know you have moved in with him. I have heard your fake screams of passion. I cannot even begin to fathom what he sees in you. One would think that you are far too thin and ugly to appeal to him sexually.   
  
_

_"You may have clouded his judgment with your perversions, but I will remedy that. I plan on videotaping your execution. Once Gil hears you begging for your life, admitting you were only using him, he will see that you had beguiled him.  
  
_

_"I will even slice off those bits of flesh you used to lure him away, so he can see they are nothing but inconsequential pieces of meat once they arrive in the lab.  
  
_

_"I promise you this, bitch: I can make your execution last days. You will pay dearly for what you have done to my poor Gil.  
  
_

_"Yours truly,  
_

_"The Angel of Death"  
_

"Wow. That's intense," Sara said, reading the letter over Grissom's shoulder. This letter was more threatening, more disturbing than the last, but not completely unexpected. The implications regarding their relationship angered her deeply, but she pushed it back.  


"What the hell does this psycho bitch want from me?" Grissom shouted, slamming both fists down on the desk hard enough to make the keyboard jump.  


"What any woman in love wants – your faithfulness," Sara said, the irony not lost on either of them. When they began seeing each other a couple of weeks ago, it was such a sweet relief that the last thing either of them wanted to think about or talk about was past relationships. None of that mattered once they finally connected. But she was forcing them to focus on the past, on every moment spent with someone else.  


"I don't even know who she is!" he huffed, getting up to yank the curtains closed, taking a moment to survey the street for anything out of the ordinary.   


"Well, she knows who you are. She must have met you sometime, at the very least." Sara purposefully kept her voice lower, more measured than his response. He was embarrassed and upset, as she was, and beginning to get very frustrated and a little afraid, just as she was.   


Though she could understand his reaction, since she shared it, she was trying to keep him calm. They had to keep their wits about them if they were going to catch the Angel of Death. It would imperil the case, not to mention several women, if they allowed her to get into their heads, controlling their emotions.  


"She knows who you are, too. I don't want you to so much as go to your car without carrying your weapon. Just do that one thing for me," he said with a finality and desperation that brooked no argument.  


"Okay. If it'll make you feel better," Sara said, knowing it probably wouldn't make any difference, if this woman were really intent on killing her, but agreeing in order to sooth him. The effect all of this was having on Grissom began to anger her more than the overt threat to her.  


"I'm calling Brass. If we can't sleep, neither can he. I want to know what the hell he's doing to catch this nutcase! Is he just sitting on his dead ass waiting for us to find her for him? I want him staking out this house 24/7, since that simple strategy hasn't seemed to dawn on him yet. There aren't many people on this list. Surely to God he can assign someone to keep an eye on them in between breaks for donuts and coffee," he roared.  


"You might want to rephrase all that when you talk to him," Sara suggested, smiling sweetly. She walked up behind him as he peered through the small opening in the curtains, lightly stroking his back, saddened by the knots of rock-hard tension in his muscles.  


"Grissom, this is going to sound funny coming from me, and believe me, it's been a learning experience, but I need for you to calm down. I need for you to get control over your emotions about this case. If you can't, you won't be able to help me or anybody else. We're depending on you to be your usual detached, rational self."  


Grissom chuckled mirthlessly. How many times had he told her the same thing? How many times had he watched, feeling helpless to stop it, as she tortured herself over a case? But she always managed to stay in enough control to stay focused on the case. She had never let it derail her, as it currently threatened to derail him.  


"It's bad enough that she killed someone I knew, presumably two women I've dated. And she's terrorizing the others. But to add insult to injury, she's humiliating me, making my love-life a laughing stock, exposing me to public ridicule. And she thinks she loves me! I wonder what she'd do if she hated me!"  


"She's sick, crazy. Everyone knows that. Nobody's going to take her seriously," Sara offered, kneading the tense cords in his neck.  


"I do. I take her very seriously, because she's very serious. She won't stop until she destroys everything and everybody that I care about. Sara, think about it. Catherine's read this letter, and presumably Brass. It's in an evidence bag for Ronnie to look at tonight, as well as Jacqui. If she finds any prints, it'll go to Greg to try to retrieve DNA.   


"It'll be scanned and put on the LIMS computer, where it will stay until she dies or serves out her sentence. The District Attorney will have it with all the other evidence, as will her defense attorney. It'll be read in court, where every journalist who's ever gotten pissed at me for not talking to them will have a field day with it.   


"Even if she's ruled incompetent, Philip Kane will read it, as will any other psychiatrist who evaluates her. The list just keeps getting bigger."  


"Yes, and they'll all see that she's a nut."  


"Yeah, she's a nut. A nut who accuses me of cradle-robbing and you of sleeping your way to the top. She makes me sound like a pussy-whipped simpleton who's being manipulated by a conniving younger woman."  


"No one will believe that ... no one who knows either one of us."  


"Some won't; but some will. People love gossip. Every time we walk into that lab, they won't see us as scientists, as professionals, but as a desperate older man being led around by his genitals by a manipulating subordinate."  


"We'll deal with that when it happens, Grissom. Right now, you've got to detach your mind from being the victim."  


"I'm not sure I can do it. Maybe I should hand this case over to Catherine. She can be more objective."  


"No, she can't. She's a victim, too, not to mention the fact that she cares about you. And no offense to Nick and Warrick, but they can't even come close to having the experience needed to get ahead of her. It has to be you, Grissom. You have to get it together."  


"I'm trying to, but she's taking something that's beautiful, that's very meaningful to me, and making it sound sordid and pathetic."  


"Grissom, that's one of the nicest things you've ever said to me," Sara said, smiling as she grasped his shoulders, turning him to face her. "Maybe I should thank her. If she hadn't poisoned me with those psychedelic mushrooms, who knows how much longer it would have been until we got together?"  


"Yeah, and if we hadn't gotten together then, we wouldn't have our sex lives plastered on half the evidence of this case," he said, grimacing.  


"You see cloud. I see silver lining," she whispered, slowly stroking his chest. "At least we have a love life to have plastered on the evidence."  


"I do love you. You know that, right? This isn't some middle-age fling to prove something to myself. It's not just about the sex. You know that. Tell me you know that," he pleaded earnestly.  


"I know. I'm not going to pretend that I don't enjoy making love with you. I think that's obvious. But if we never had sex again, I'd still love you. I've loved you for years without ever being able to do anything more than brush up against you ... accidentally, of course."  


"Of course," he smiled, pulling her into a hug.   


* * * * *  
  


The Angel of Death sorted through her tools carefully, selecting just the right implements. Placing them in the wheelbarrow with the other items, she pushed it carefully to the backyard, whistling cheerfully as she went.   
  


Stopping in front of the birdbath, she started her work by moving the collection of garden gnomes and the birdbath aside carefully, then raking away the decorative stone mulch. Once that was accomplished, she dug a deep hole.  
  


She opened each of the glass Mason jars, watching as the flies buzzed away to freedom sadly. So much for that plan. It had seemed inspired at the time. Letting out a sigh, she dropped each jar into the hole.  
  


_You shouldn't have protected the slut, dear Gil. That had been your perfect opportunity to rid yourself of the hussy.  
_  


After she had realized the brown-eyed whore was tempting Gil, the Angel of Death moved to destroy her career. Each day, she stuck a piece of meat in a jar and placed it under the shade tree. Once the maggots infested the meat, she placed a lid on the jar – with air holes, of course – and set them in her cool garage. There, the bugs developed slowly.  
  


She had followed the slut every day, finally catching her returning alone to the scene of the drug bust.  
  


_Probably went to retrieve the drugs and money she hid from the others!  
_  


After the harlot left, the Angel of Death waited until the drug dealer returned. Like flies to a corpse, she knew the vermin would return to his den eventually. She had considered shooting him, but she didn't know what type of gun the CSIs carried.  
  


_Besides, Gil would have found out it wasn't the bitch's gun. He said that once – they could match a bullet to a gun_.  
  


Instead, she had taken her tire iron and bashed him in the head. There was no way she was going to touch the vile man with her bare hands. Unfortunately, her blow hadn't been enough to kill him. He swung widely as he staggered, connecting once with the iron bar before she had used it to crush his larynx.  
  


She then turned the flies loose in the room, turned off the air conditioning, and opened the curtains. That would cause the bugs to mature faster, making it seem like the body had been there longer than it had.  
  


_Gil taught me that. He was an expert on these things! Why, he was on the television all the time, testifying how they could link the time of death based on the bugs!  
_  


The next day, she went back to the house, turned the A/C back on, watching in delight as the maggots squirmed on the uncouth creature's corpse. Smiling happily, she left the house, giving a squeal of delight once she was in her SUV.  
  


_I knew sweet Gil would work that scene. Too bad it was inside; oh, I love to watch him work. I created it just for him, to show him how filthy his whore was. He would see how much I loved him; who else would create a scene with bugs so they could connect? Certainly not the scrawny bitch!  
  
_

_Oh, she was evil, the brown-eyed hippy! She tricked my Gil into not firing her. What type of vile persuasions did she have to resort to? Poor Gil. The whore fooled him twice – once for the mushrooms and once for the drug dealer!  
  
_

_Oh, you think you're so smart. Your Harvard degree won't be any use against me.   
_  


After filling in the hole and raking the stones back in place, the Angel of Death took care in rearranging the birdbath and the collection of gnomes until everything was pretty as a picture.  
  


The small ornaments reminded her of Melanie Grace, the sweet dwarf woman Gil had shown compassion for. She was such a noble creature, not letting her stature interfere with her life. The Angel of Death always admired those who overcame their difficulties with grace.   
  


She'd even donated the money she had found on her victims to the March of Dimes. Charity starts at home, after all.  
  


Of course, Melanie wasn't a threat; the dear was as cute as a button, a living doll. Gil would never have considered a relationship with her.  
  


_Besides, her tiny body parts were too easy to identify. _  
  


Brushing her gloved hands together, the Angel of Death took a moment to survey the backyard. Not so much as a blade of grass was out of place. They would have the wedding here. One advantage of living in the desert was you didn't have to worry about being rained out.  
  


_We can exchange our vows by the rose garden_.  
  


Taking her tools back inside, the Angel of Death chuckled heartily as a plan formed. She'd bury the whore's body in front of the rose bushes.   
  


_We'll stand on her rotting flesh as we say our vows. It would be the perfect wedding present for Gil._   
  


* * * * *  


_TBC_


	9. The Lady is a Tramp

**Chapter 9 – The Lady is a Tramp**

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Grissom asked as they pulled up outside Lady Heather's Domain. It was dusk, but not yet dark, so there would be little activity to divert Lady Heather's attention.

"No. But I'm going to do it anyway," Sara said, blowing out a deep breath. Grissom followed her to the back of her SUV, lifting her kit from the back, handing it to her before slamming the doors shut.

"Hey, just remember that I love you," he said, reaching out to take her free hand into his. 

"I know. I'll try to keep that in mind," she said, a forced smile on her face. "Wish me luck."

"Should I have an ambulance standing by, just in case?" he teased.

"Should I take a gun, just in case?" she shot back.

"Not for you, but for her," Grissom chided her.

"She's the one with all the weapons, and she knows how to use them. So, I'd say she has the upper hand. We never studied defense against a Cat o' Nine Tails in my self-defense classes."

"Just say 'Stop'. That's all you need to do in there, if things get to be too much," he said, turning serious.

"You would know," Sara mumbled as she turned. She took two steps and stopped, dropping her head. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for." She didn't turn to face him, both unwilling to show her feelings to him, and uncertain she wanted to see his.

"It's okay," he said evenly, knowing that he'd likely be feeling the effects of this encounter for a some time to come. "I'll be right here, if you need me."

"Thanks," she said, lifting her head to walk resolutely to the door, knocking firmly.

She was almost stunned when Heather opened the door, immediately fixing her with a green-eyed gaze that flickered briefly when she saw Grissom leaning against the side of the SUV, watching intently.

_She's beautiful, in a dark, gothic sort of way. I didn't expect that. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't that._

"Do come in," Heather said in her silkiest voice. As Sara passed by, Lady Heather looked up at Grissom, raising an eyebrow as she slowly closed the door.

"Ma'am, my name is Sara Sidle. I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab," Sara said, clearing her throat twice, attempting to sound as professional and confident as possible.

"I'm Lady Heather, and this is my Domain," she said, opening her arms expansively.

"I understand that you received another package?"

"Yes, Ms. Sidle, I did."

"You can call me Sara."

"I appreciate the offer, but I'd rather not. You'll find that there's a certain formality in my domain. The use of one's first name denotes a certain level of _intimacy_," Lady Heather said, smiling knowingly at her. 

Sara nodded slowly, like one who hears, and understands the words, but can't quite make sense of them.

"And how is Gil doing these days?"

"Fine," Sara said, biting back the sudden surge of anger. She hadn't been in the house two minutes and Lady Heather was already rubbing it in her face that she'd been intimate with Grissom, purposefully using his first name.

"Follow me, please. I'll show you to my office. Detective Brass and a nice young man from the Coroner's office are waiting for you."

"Thank you," Sara said, feeling self-conscious walking behind Lady Heather, who appeared to glide sensuously, despite her garb. Sara felt underdressed, gawky, and decidedly unfeminine compared to Heather.

"Sara," Brass nodded uncomfortably when she entered the room that looked to have been decorated by the Marquis de Sade.

She strove not to appear as lost as Alice in Wonderland, as she quickly glanced around the room.

"David," Sara smiled, glad that someone was there who was even more naïve than she was. He looked positively thunderstruck, despite all he'd seen in the past several years as Dr. Robbins's assistant.

"Uh, hi, Sara," David squeaked out.

"You guys ready?" Sara asked, her training taking over, giving her a surge of confidence. Both men nodded. She spread a plastic dropcloth on Lady Heather's desk, setting the package back down on it. 

Taking a fresh scalpel from her kit, she sliced through the paper, careful to avoid the tape, which could have fingerprints or epithelials on it. She slowly pressed down the freed paper, exposing the box. It was fairly broad and wide, though not more than six inches deep. 

Sara slit around the edge, again to preserve the taped area on top. She carefully lifted the cut-away section, placing it on the plastic. Inside there was a black trash sack with a twist-tie sealing it. Sara carefully undid the tie, setting it to the side as well.

Lady Heather watched in fascination as Sara meticulously peeled back one layer after next of the mystery. The younger woman's confidence in her work was a stark contrast to her earlier demeanor. 

Was she uncomfortable with her femininity? Or with herself? Was this her weakness? Or was it Grissom that would be the key to her undoing?

Sara slowly rolled open the sack until the contents were visible. She took up her camera and made several photographs before moving aside to allow David access. 

"She certainly looks dead to me," he said, noting the time on the form attached to his clipboard. If an actual time of death is unknown, the time that the body was declared dead is noted until a better estimate can be formed. 

"I'll hold the bag for you," Sara offered, while David lifted the severed leg from the box. It was folded into a severe 'V' shape, still cold to the touch, though the outer portion was thawed. He slid it into the biohazards bag and sealed it. 

"Are you done with me, with this?" he stammered.

"Yes, David. I'll see you back at the lab," Sara said, almost laughing to see him even more ill-at-ease than she was. She'd never seen him move as fast as he did leaving Lady Heather's Domain.

Sara resealed the trash bag to ensure that any blood or other fluids wouldn't escape before she could get it back to Greg. She carefully folded the plastic sheeting in on itself, taping it shut with red evidence tape, slipping the entirety into a large paper bag.

She made some quick entries on the crime scene log and signed the Chain of Custody form. 

"Detective Brass, would you give this to Grissom?" she asked, pulling off her gloves and tossing them in the sack as well.

"Sure. Is he at the lab?"

"No. He's waiting for me outside," Sara said, hoping he wouldn't ask any more questions.

"Oh," he said, clearing his throat. "Well, Lady Heather, it's been interesting, as always."

"Come back anytime, Detective Brass. Allow me to show you to the door."

"Naw, that's okay. I should know my way out by now," he said, holding up his hand. Smiling briefly at Sara, he turned and followed David's path.

"Would you like me to show you around?" Lady Heather asked, noticing that Sara was glancing about the room.

"No, thank you."

"This one seemed to fascinate Mr. Grissom," Heather said, holding up a leather mask. "He asked to borrow it."

"He used it to demonstrate how an accidental murder was committed. I remember it well," Sara nodded.

"He would," Heather said, turning to face Sara. "Would you like to borrow it?"

"No, thanks," Sara said curtly.

"It's really not your style, is it? You're obviously not into appearances."

"I don't believe in hiding behind masks."

"We all have masks. Some people aren't cognizant of the fact, or aren't willing to admit it," Heather said lightly. "Who really is hiding? Those who openly admit their shortcomings or those who pretend they don't have any?"

"I really couldn't say." 

"I could lend you some outfits that I happen to know Gil would appreciate," she said with a cat-like smile. "If you're willing to dress to please him."__

"Lady Heather, I'm here on business. What _I'd_ appreciate is if we could stay focused on that," Sara said.

"He initially considered what we do here aberrant, but he came to appreciate it in time," Heather said, goading Sara.

"I really didn't come here to discuss what Grissom did," Sara said sharply. She forced her hands to relax, realizing that she had balled them into tense fists, her short fingernails digging into her palms painfully.

"Why did you come here?" Heather asked her, taking a seat behind her desk, looking like anything but the astute businesswoman she was. She leaned seductively against the side of her chair, one leg splayed across the arm, peeking out from the gauze of her skirt.

"I came to process the scene, and to warn you," she answered, wondering if Lady Heather was trying to demonstrate how much sexier she was, or whether she was trying to seduce her. 

"Warn me?" Heather repeated, lifting an eyebrow. She innocently picked up a leather riding crop from her desk, and began to lightly tap her leather boot with it, occasionally dragging it upward, pulling the fronds of the gauze skirt with it.

"The woman responsible for these body parts has fixated on Grissom. She's targeting every woman closely involved in his life for at least the past four years. That includes you, I'm told."

"And who told you that?" Heather asked, the smile never faltering, her emerald eyes seeming to mesmerize like a cobra's.

"Grissom did," Sara answered.

"Now that surprises me. He's normally more reticent than that, isn't he? Did it bother you when he told you? Does it bother you now?" Heather asked matter-of-factly, as if she were speaking of the weather instead of a sexual rendezvous.

"Yes," Sara answered honestly, her head and her voice wavering with the pent-up emotion.

"Why should just one night of unbridled passion, almost a year ago bother you?"

Even Sara's shoulders were shaking as she shrugged.

"I can smell his scent on you," she said as she passed by, stunning Sara into silence.

"Your lips are still a little swollen, aren't they? And the powder doesn't quite cover the beard burn on your face and neck." Heather walked to the window and parted the curtains. "He's waiting for you outside, pacing like he's worried about you being here. It's obvious that you are together." Sara was speechless for a moment, feeling exposed in a way she never had.

"Don't worry, Ms. Sidle. It might not be obvious to everyone. But this is my business," Heather chuckled.

"What did he ... um, did you ...?" Sara stammered, wanting to know what had happened, yet not wanting to know – the battle being waged in her throat.

"I guess you probably want to know exactly what Mr. Grissom experienced here. After all, you want to please him. You want to know if there's something more you could be doing to satisfy him. Am I right?"

Sara stared, feeling herself begin to tremble when she realized that Lady Heather actually intended to tell her. She couldn't fathom what her motive could be, but she doubted it was to be friendly or helpful. 

While Sara would admit to being a bit cynical, as befitted her profession, she didn't automatically assume the absolute worst of someone – but she was beginning to wonder if Lady Heather was being purposefully cruel.

"Do you want to know, Ms. Sidle?" Lady Heather asked, taking a step towards her.

Sara didn't speak, her mind irrationally wanting to know, but her heart begging her to make it stop.

Lady Heather moved closer again – not overtly threateningly, but not friendly either. Her proximity heightened Sara's tension with each step.

"Do you? You want to what we did all evening, when he was supposed to be here on a case? Well, we did spend a few minutes talking about it. But certainly not all night."

Sara's head began to twist back and forth, but the word 'no' didn't escape her constricted throat.

"Have you ever asked him? Gotten him to re-enact it for you, with you?" Lady Heather said, her voice taking on a hard, cruel edge. 

"No," Sara squeaked out, but not strongly enough to deter Heather, who took yet another step towards her, the women almost eye-to-eye.

"I have it on videotape. Sometimes I watch it while I pleasure myself. Would you like to see it?" Lady Heather's eyes sparkled. She was clearly enjoying the torment.

"Stop!" Sara barked, whirling away from Lady Heather. She took deep breaths that shook as they entered and left her body. She was burning with the heat of anger, yet chilled to the bone.

"As you wish," Heather said, withdrawing to the window, glancing out at Grissom while Sara composed herself.

"If it makes you feel any better, I can assure you that Mr. Grissom had no interest in any of the more exotic offerings available in my Domain. While they interest him intellectually, his sexual tastes run a much more mundane course. I would assume that nothing happened here that you haven't already experienced, many times over."

Sara nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Have you ever been lonely, Ms. Sidle?" Heather asked, turning to her mantle of horrors, running a finger across black leather.

"Of course," she answered, regaining some control over her voice. Sara wondered if Heather was gearing up for another slap at Sara's raw emotions.

"Have you ever had something bad happen to you, something you couldn't control? Something that could change your entire life?"

"No," Sara answered too quickly, making it obvious that it was a subject she didn't wish to discuss. 

_Who are we talking about here? Me? You? Grissom? Who?_

"Of course you have," Heather chided. "Now, what if you were upset about something that bad, and you were lonely, and the person you wanted to be with was with someone else?" Lady Heather said, turning to peer intently into Sara's eyes.

Sara stood motionless, her mind catching up to Heather's hypothetical scenario.

Me? Or Grissom?

"What if all of that was happening to you, if your world were collapsing around you, and then someone came along who offered you a moment of diversion? Just a little time to forget your problems. What would you do?"

"I, I don't know," Sara stammered.

"Of course you do. Haven't you ever allowed yourself a little diversion, an escape from the frustrations of not having the life you yearned for?"

"I suppose."

"Yes, I suppose you have. We all have," Lady Heather said. "That's really all he did."

"But why you?" Sara asked.

"Because I was the one who came along when he needed the diversion. Was there an alternative? Or was the alternative perhaps too caught up in her own diversion?"

"I ...," Sara started, but decided against trying to explain herself. When Grissom needed her, she wasn't available, and she had to admit that to herself, even if he had also shut her out.

"Perhaps you weren't there when he needed you, but I was. You shouldn't begrudge me for taking the opportunity you left on the table."

"I didn't know he needed me," Sara countered.

"You weren't paying attention. But no matter. All has been put to rights, hasn't it?" Lady Heather asked, leading Sara out of the office into the foyer.

"Yes," Sara answered. "Why would someone like you be interested in him?" 

"He is an unusual man," Lady Heather said vaguely.

"There are a lot of unusual men in the world. All of the men who come here could be classified as 'unusual'. So why Grissom?"

"He was a gentleman, classically educated, shy yet confident. He has a gentle strength that I find ... found ... refreshing. And, he's not like my clients. This is a business, not a lifestyle."

"Oh, I guess ... I assumed ..." Sara said, both eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"Everyone does. And believe me, I have the skills of the trade. But I'd kill any man that laid a hand on me," Lady Heather said firmly.

"You and me both," Sara agreed, a slight smile pushing the corners of her lips up, but not a smile of friendship.

"Other than the adjustments we've made for our professions, you might find that you and I aren't so different as you would imagine," Lady Heather said. "Which is probably why Mr. Grissom was responsive in the first place, if the truth be told."

"We are completely different," Sara said heatedly.

"Those are externalities, Ms. Sidle. Form, not substance."

"I would never purposefully hurt someone. You would. You have. You just did," Sara said, the pain from their earlier conversation still flashing in her eyes.

"A hazard of the profession. Sometimes we become our jobs. Doesn't that ever happen to you?"

"Maybe. But I don't use it to emotionally torture people," Sara shot back.

"That's the difference between your job and mine, not necessarily the difference between you and me. We both get a little too involved with our work."

"If you say so," Sara said, glad to be approaching the door that was the portal to sanity.

"Give Mr. Grissom my regards, Ms. Sidle," Heather said, opening the heavy wooden door.

"Of course," Sara said, walking quickly across the street to the SUV. Grissom opened the back and took the kit from her, setting it next to the evidence bag that Brass had delivered.

Heather watched from the door as Grissom put a hand on Sara's arm, stroking it as he looked at her, concerned, asking her if she were all right. She smiled uncomfortably at him and nodded, though not convincingly. 

He led her to the passenger side, opening the door and helping her in, standing there a moment before he walked around to the driver's side, never once looking towards the Domain.

_So that's the one, the one you were thinking about. I could see it in your eyes, that there was another. But you didn't think it would ever happen, did you? You never thought the day would come when your life would change._

I had thought maybe I could hold your interest for a while. I knew you could hold mine. Your gentleness is your strength; you use it to dominate as skillfully as others use a whip. How I have longed to find a man like you! 

Intelligent, well-read, passionate yet reserved, like a thoroughbred under the bridle, reined in until his neck is bowed. Do you know how much I wanted to see you unbridled? What I would have given to have been the woman to set you free!

I would never have chosen her, if asked to name a woman who would captivate you. She is too young, too naïve, too earthy and unrefined, compared to you. And yet, when she stood in my office, with a fire in her eyes, but holding herself back, I knew. I knew that in all the ways that count, she's just like you. 

If you reject yourself, you'll reject her. If you hate yourself, you'll hate her. If you're angry with yourself, you'll be angry with her. But when you accept yourself, love yourself, you'll accept and love her. You've obviously done some soul-searching these past months, Mr. Grissom.

I'm happy that you found yourself, and in so doing, found that you were loved. I would have wished it could have been with me, but I'm happy for you nonetheless.

Lady Heather smiled a farewell at them both, unseen but offered anyway. She closed the door, sliding the deadbolt into place. It was almost time for all the needy boys to come to her Domain. She lightly patted the garter at the top of her thigh, satisfied that the .22 caliber Derringer was still in place.

_Let this Angel of Death invade my Domain! I'll show her that there are far worse things in this life than death. For every moment of pain she inflicts, I'll gladly repay her. I have toys that grown men whimper at the sight of, tools that no client dares to allow me to use, even if they are in control. _

_The difference will be that, for you, there will be no safety word, no 'Stop'._

The doorbell rang and Heather peeked through the hole, recognizing a prominent local politician, who was looking furtively around, concerned he'd be seen there.

"How nice to see you again," she purred as she opened the door, showing him in. His Master for the evening shouted at him from the top of the stairs, cracking a short whip to punctuate his orders. The politician cowered and scurried up the stairs, wailing his apologies.

He was struck sharply across the back as soon as he was within reach, and shoved into an open room, the door slamming. Heather smiled at the sounds of another satisfied customer.

_Another day, another $5,000._

* * * * *

The Angel of Death watched curiously as her deluded love walked frantically around the SUV. 

_Why didn't he go inside? Had she treated him so harshly on his last visit that he feared to face the whip-whore again?_

Or was it more sinister than that? Had the scrawny whore prevented him from going in? Were those two trollops working together to destroy her innocent Gil?

She nodded her head slowly as she considered the implications. It made sense. She knew the brunette bitch was trouble from the day she arrived in Las Vegas. The Angel of Death shuddered dramatically. She still had nightmares from that experience.

She had been watching her sweet Gil work, watching with pride as he snapped the photos of the dummies that had been thrown from the roof. Her heart nearly burst when the crowd showed its approval of his work, breaking into applause. She had been clapping the loudest.

"Yes, yes," he said, waving to her briefly. She'd blushed extensively afterwards. Gil didn't like to be bothered at work, but he was so hard to resist.

Then the whore showed up. She crossed under the police tape, acting as if she had the right to walk up to him directly. Then she had the gall to mock him publicly.

Her Gil kept his composure, though. "I don't even have to turn around." He knew who was taunting him – she hadn't been able to distract him, even though the slut tried.

"God, Sara." She could recall the frustration in his voice. Clearly the bag-of-bones harridan was getting to him, but he kept a professional air about him the whole time.

Yes, she had recognized the bitch was trouble from the beginning. How many times had she gone to watch her beloved work, only to find the whore throwing herself at him? She tried to get her fired, by reporting her lewd behavior towards him in public, but that had only been briefly mentioned during the movie star's trial. 

_Well, Gil, you'll soon have the proof of her indiscretions. That should get you to think with your correct head._

TO BE CONTINUED ...


	10. Every Picture Tells a Story

Chapter 10 – Every Picture Tells a Story 

The first thing Grissom noticed was the flowery smell of perfume that wafted from the manila envelope. Lilacs perhaps? A quick check showed the return address was his townhouse. 

His tongue peaked out of his lips as he donned a pair of latex gloves. Grabbing a knife, he carefully slit the envelope open. Inside,Inside were a single sheet of stationary and a stack of photographs, a piece of pastel tissue paper placed carefully between each picture.

Using a pair of tweezers, he examined the letter first. The pale peach background was decorated with pictures of blue-eyed kittens playing with balls of yarn.

_"My dearest Gil,_

_"How my heart aches for you every time I see you in the clutches of that cheap prostitute. I know it is painful to admit you have made a mistake, but for your own good, you must accept the truth. She is nothing but a harlot._

_"These photographs should remove any doubt you have about her faithfulness. See how she writhes in the clutches of any man who comes near her. See how she lets any man have her, as if she is a bitch in heat._

_"Please, my love, open your eyes. She is only using you. The slut will only use you. I love you. I always have. I always will._

_"With all my love,_

_"The Angel of Death_

_"xoxoxoxoxo"_

Grissom carefully placed the letter down. What photographs could she possible have? Looking at the stack of photos, he cautiously examined the top one. It was a picture of Sara and Warrick standing under an umbrella, leaning close together to stay dry. Both were in their vests, so presumably it was at a crime scene.

Setting the photo and first sheet of tissue aside, he moved to the next image. This time, Sara and Detective Vega were laughing together over a cup of coffee. Again, it looked like a crime scene. The next photo was of Nick exiting the diner, Sara giving his arm a friendly punch as they laughed.

He let out a relieved sigh. If this is what the Angel of Death considered lascivious, she was delusional. It was Sara with her friends and co-workers.

The next picture caused him to draw a sharp breath. Hank was standing behind Sara, nuzzling her neck while his hand was slipped slightly under her shirt, the skin of her stomach exposed.

_Where had his hand been? Where was it going? Oh, God, I didn't need to see this. I didn't need to see him kissing her, touching her. I didn't need to see her smile at his touch._

He put the pictures and the letter back in the manila envelope, shoving it for the moment into his desk drawer. He was suddenly feeling a little queasy. He considered not entering the package as evidence. 

_I could leave out the picture with Hank in it. The others are innocent. I think. No, they are. Aren't they? She's not like that. Except with Hank, evidently. But she wasn't seeing me then, so I shouldn't care. How did she get a picture of Hank doing that to Sara? Where they right out in public, kissing and groping each other? God, I feel sick. _

* * * * *

"Have you ever gambled?" Warrick asked Sara as the group milled around, getting coffee and grabbing donuts from the box that Nick had picked up this morning after work. They had been talking about how Catherine had indeed received Charlotte's right leg, just as Sara had predicted.

"All the time" she answered. "I just don't put any money on it."

"Girl, you're a natural at it. You're good with patterns, odds and math. And you're not afraid to take chances," he said.

"That's why I don't do it. Never start something you can't walk away from."

"Including relationships?" Nick challenged her.

"I suppose there's an exception to every rule," she said, smiling at Nick's innate ability to find a way to oppose her at any turn, yet remain one of her closest friends.

"Damn! This is getting exhausting. It's like working two shifts a day," Grissom said as he walked tiredly through the door. 

"Coffee. I need coffee," he grumbled, as the others took their seats. He seemed distracted and out-of-sorts.

"I wish our Angel of Death would arrange for later drop-offs of her little gifts," he said, taking a sip. I haven't gotten a full afternoon's sleep in days."

"Try going to bed ... uh, to sleep as soon as you get home in the mornings," Catherine suggested.

"I can't get right to sleep when I get off work. I need some time to unwind," he retorted. 

All eyes shifted between Gil and Sara, and their co-workers fought to keep grins off of their faces. Nick finally had to bury his mouth in his hand, pretending to be propping himself on the table.

"Find some other time to 'unwind'," Catherine said suggestively, making it almost impossible for Nick and Warrick to maintain their composure.

"Moving on now, people," Sara said, exasperated.

"Okay, sorry," Catherine laughed. "Just trying to lighten things up."

"It's bad enough to have my personal life become the center of an investigation, but you don't have to tease me about it as well, Catherine," Grissom growled.

"I'm sorry, Gil. But you set yourself up. It was a slow pitch; I couldn't help but swing at it," she laughed.

"Okay, we've got two deliveries to the lab, two to Sara, two to Catherine and two to Heather. What's next?" Grissom asked, turning the discussion away from his love-life, especially with the memory of Hank and Sara intertwined in the photo still burning in his mind.

"This is where it gets hard to tell," Sara said. "She could turn back and repeat the pattern, sending the next parts to me and the lab. Or she could have a new pair of recipients. Who's left on your list?" Sara asked, more detached now, less affected by his list of failed conquests. After her confrontation with Lady Heather, nothing else seemed particularly affecting.

"Dr. Miller and Dr. Gilbert. Seems like a natural pair, doesn't it?" he asked.

"As likely as any," Sara agreed.

"We need to get ahead of her somehow. Have we gotten anything from QD? Fingerprints? Trace?" he asked, looking around the table.

"We got some partials from the tape. I guess she found out how difficult it is to handle tape with latex gloves on," Catherine answered.

"Ronnie's striking out," Nick said. "He says that the boxes, paper, labels, everything, is all name-brand, available everywhere from Office Depot to Wal-Mart. No way to trace it. All mailed from different substations, in an apparently random order."

"Nothing about this person is random," Sara said, shaking her head. "We just don't know the pattern yet. I'll work on it tonight."

"Hodges says that the black bags are typical Hefty trash bags. Individual, not on a roll, so we can't even think about matching them that way. He analyzed their chemical components, hoping to get a profile to match if we get a chance, but she must have more than one box of them, because he's getting different trace elements in the plastic of each bag."

"She's smart, very smart," Catherine groused.

"I don't care how smart she is, she's bound to make a mistake sooner or later," Grissom snapped.

"You're letting her get to you," Catherine said. 

"She's killed people I knew, people I cared about! She's threatening people I about now! So you'll just have to excuse me if I'm not reacting like you think I should!" he barked, pushing up from the table suddenly, his chair rolling back wildly. He stormed from the room, leaving a vacuum.

"I better ... go ... um ..." Sara said, getting up to follow him. The other three nodded their agreement, not exhaling until she'd left the room.

"That went well," Warrick deadpanned.

"Yeah, that was fun. Hey, do we have any cases, or can we just play video games all night?" Nick asked.

"You wish," Catherine answered. The stack of assignment slips was still lying on the table. She pulled them in front of her and began dividing them up between the three. 

"Too bad we have to leave, but duty calls," Warrick said as each CSI picked up the two assignments Catherine had dealt them.

* * * * *

Sara knocked lightly and waited a moment. Not hearing a reply, she knocked again, a little more loudly. Still no sound from Grissom's office. She slowly turned the knob and peeked inside.

He was sitting at his desk, with his back turned towards the door. Hearing the door open, he exhaled almost angrily at the unbidden intrusion.

"You okay?" Sara asked, her upper body thrust through the door, but the rest of her still standing in the hallway. She was keenly aware that he hadn't asked her to come in.

"Sure," he said sharply, still not turning to face her.

"Want some company?"

"Not really."

"Oh. Well, is there anything in particular you want me to work on?"

"It wouldn't make much difference."

"Is that a performance evaluation?" Sara asked, her own nerves frayed.

"Her performance, not yours," he said quickly. He wondered if it were starting, the unraveling of their new relationship – the loose strings being pulled by a faceless, nameless woman.

"Nobody's perfect, Grissom. She'll make a mistake sooner or later, and you'll be all over it," Sara said hopefully.

Grissom looked at the corkboard on his wall, shaped like a fish. He turned to face her and pointed to the board. "I'm still waiting on them to make a mistake. Some of those cases are 15 years old. I have to admit that sometimes they're smarter than I am."

"She's escalating, though. Losing control over her emotions. If you can master yours while she's losing hers, you'll win."

"And how many women will die in the meantime?" he asked painfully, not needing to remind her that she was at the top of the list.

"Baby, there's nothing you can do about that. You have to focus on your job – that's the only way you can help any of them."

"Don't call me that. Don't ever call me that," he snapped angrily.

"What's wrong, Grissom?" Sara said, knowing that this went beyond being tired, or being teased by Catherine.

"Nothing. I just don't want you to call me 'baby'," he shrugged.

"Okay. Is there any term of endearment that's approved?" she asked frostily.

"I don't care. Just not 'baby'."

"Is this about ... Hank?" she asked, realizing that he no doubt heard about her faux pas at the crime scene, when she called Hank 'baby' in front of the detective on the scene.

"I don't really want to talk about Hank."

"Tell me what's happened," she demanded. Something had to have reminded him, and she was sure it wasn't just being called 'baby'.

After a moment's consideration, Grissom put on gloves and took the envelope out of the drawer. Reaching in, he pulled out the picture of Sara and Hank, laying it down on the envelope for her to see.

"Oh," she exhaled. "I see."

"So do I," Grissom said. "I see too much."

"I could have seen more today, if I had wanted to. Lady Heather offered to show me a video of your ... uh ... interlude."

Grissom dropped his head into his hands. He'd never considered that he might have been filmed at the Domain.

"You feel like doing a little work?" she asked. She wasn't going to explain herself to him any more than she wanted an explanation from him.

"You wanted to go through the fan mail again, right?" he answered tiredly, glad they were dropping the subject of their past indiscretions.

"Yeah. Compare them to her notes. It's hard to believe that she's this obsessed without ever trying to make contact before."

"Okay," he said, opening the pedestal file drawer in his desk, pulling out a file. "Here we go." He sorted through them, pulling out a couple of dozen that spanned the past four years, dividing them into two stacks. 

Pulling up each note that had been scanned into the LIMS computer, he hit the print button twice, making each of them copies of the notes. Turning to pick them up from the printer, he exhaled as his eyes settled on the last letter.

"Don't think about it," she warned, taking her copies from his immobile hands.

"Right. Don't think about it. She's just threatening to maim and kill the only woman I've ever loved," he murmured.

Sara froze as she looked at him. He'd told her a few times that he loved her, and she believed him. It had sent waves of joy through her each time. But he'd never told her that she was the only one. There was something about that admission that was both satisfying and sad.

It only took them a few minutes to rule out most of the letters. Many were from victims' families and were simple thank-you notes.

"I have two possibles," Sara said, picking up one of the letters and one of the Angel of Death's notes to compare them. She repeated the process with the other.

"I have one," Grissom said, doing the same thing. 

"We should take these to Dr. Kane. He might be able to see the beginnings of the problem in an earlier letter. All three of these look a little obsessive to me, but I'm no psychologist," Sara said.

"We'll make a couple of sets of copies. You take one to Philip. See what he thinks. I'll take the other to Brass, so he can start checking them out."

"Sounds good," Sara said, ducking out to photocopy the three fan letters.

Grissom sat, staring blankly at the door, unaware of the usual activity in the lab. If this panned out, they would finally have a lead. If they could get warrants, they'd have a chance at finding the remainder of the frozen bodies. This could finally be all over.

Except for the trial, Grissom reminded himself. He had been a little surprised that the lab personnel hadn't reacted as poorly as he had feared. At first, he wondered if they knew about the second note, then realized that they must. They had processed it; the results were in the LIMS computer.

Soon, the letter sent to him, with all the pictures, would be in the evidence as well. Grissom considered what would be seen by all – he was an older man, her boss, and he was completely smitten by the younger woman, the woman being held by a handsome, young man in the picture they would all see soon.soon. He knew he would suffer in the comparison with Hank.

He chided himself for not giving them credit for being professionals. Many of them were young, to be sure, but he had personally hired and trained a large number of them. He should have been more confident in them, trusted them more. He knew that they would talk about it amongst themselves, but at least they would have the good grace to not make him witness it.

But the trial would be different. There would be no reason for anyone to hide their ridicule. He and Sara both would be fair game. Not only were they the criminalists on the case, but they ended up victims as well. Their lives would be on display for all to see, anyone free to make any implications that suited their purposes.

It was apparent to him that the likelihood that he and Sara could retain their jobs was slim. It bothered him a bit, but he'd been at this lab for over 16 years. He'd taken it from 14th to second in national rankings. Maybe it was time to take on a new challenge.

His only fear was that all the publicity and nastiness would tear them apart. He had come to accept that he loved her, and he believed her when she said she felt the same way. But they hadn't been together long enough to forge the sort of bond that could withstand what was ahead of them, he feared.

The look on his face concerned Sara when she returned with the copies. He had seemed to be a little less morose when she'd left, but she found him to be almost melancholy when she got back.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, handing him his copies.

"Nothing," he lied, folding the pages to slide them into the pocket of his jacket.

She cocked her head, studying him intently. Grissom looked at her, putting on what he hoped was his most convincing innocent face. He could feel her eyes boring into his, demanding the truth.

"Call me if you find out anything," he said, taking his leave before she could break down the walls that he was throwing up to hide from her.

* * * * *

"You're as crazy as she is!" Brass bellowed.

"Can you think of a better way?" Grissom asked.

"Sara must be rubbing off on you. Whoa, that came out wrong," Brass mumbled.

"You know, you and Catherine are supposedly my best friends. Yet you two are the only ones making jokes about me seeing Sara. I suppose that means you disapprove."

"Not at all, my friend," Brass said, shaking his head. "And, to the best of my knowledge, neither does Catherine."

"Then why the jokes?"

"Because it's funny. You've got to lighten up, buddy. Look, we've been watching this soap opera for years. We were beginning to think that you two must be purposefully acting stupid. No one takes that long to ask someone out, for God's sake."

"There were other issues that interfered," Grissom complained.

"Did all those issues just vaporize?"

"Well, no."

"See? That's what's funny. Nothing's really changed, but now suddenly you two go from two geeks who can barely communicate with each other to practically living together in just a couple of weeks. Don't you just want to slap your own forehead and yell 'Doh!'?"

"Yeah, I do," Grissom admitted.

"But, man, I hope it works out for you. I really do. She's a good kid, not to mention a looker. You could've done a lot worse."

"Thank you ... I think."

"I don't know what she sees in you, but who am I to judge?" Brass joked.

"I don't know, either," Grissom breathed out heavily. "I keep asking myself that. Until I know the answer, I'm not sure I can really believe it's happening."

"I hope it's worth it, 'cause this case is going to stir up a lot of shit. The Sheriff is going to eat your ass up," Brass warned.

"I know. But I can't worry about that now. What I'm worried about is Sara and the other women this nut is terrorizing. She obviously thinks she's doing this for me. I've got to try to make contact with her."

"By making yourself bait?"

"Yes. I haven't been alone since this whole thing has started. Maybe that's why she hasn't tried to contact me directly. But I know she's stalking me, so she would know if I'm alone."

"What do you have in mind?" Brass asked, knowing that Grissom would likely do this with or without his help, so he might just as well cooperate.

"Normal activities that she wouldn't think are suspicious, like going to the grocery store, the dry cleaners, the car wash – things like that."

"Does Sara know about this?" Brass asked, his eyes narrowing in disbelief.

"No, and I don't want her to."

"You are playing with fire, my friend. If this Angel of Death doesn't kill you, Sara will. You know that, right?"

"I know that I've got to do something to make this stop. She'll understand."

"Remember how you acted when she played decoy for the Strip Strangler? You were not amused," Brass reminded him.

"I know. And I know that Sara won't be amused either."

"It can be tough being a hypocrite," Brass said openly.

"I appreciate your support," Grissom shot back.

"Just don't get yourself killed. Sara will castrate me if anything happens to you. I may not be a Don Juan, but it's comforting to know I have all my original equipment – just in case I ever need it again."

"Just watch my back. I'll take care of the rest."

"Oh, I'll have your back. And your front, and both sides. Hell, I may suspend an officer from the ceiling."

"Just don't get made, or we may never get another chance," Grissom warned.

"Oh, I've never done this before. I'm so glad you told me how," Brass countered sarcastically.

Leaning back in the chair across from Brass, Grissom exhaled heavily. 

"I'm going to be in such deep shit with Sara, no matter what happens, aren't I?"

"Yep," Brass said, nodding. 

* * * * *

"What did Philip have to say?" Grissom said as he and Sara converged in the hallway.

"Said that these two are possibles," she said, showing him two of the fan letters. "Both have obsessive tendencies, from what he could tell. Both write in the same general style as the Angel. His exact words were, 'It could be either of them, or neither of them'."

"Sounds like a psychologist," Grissom grumbled.

"What did Brass have to say?"

"Oh, he'll check them out, then get back with me."

"You were there a long time just to find that out," Sara said suspiciously.

"We talked about the case some," Grissom evaded. 

"Okay. Well, if you don't have anything else for me to do, I was going to go help Nicky with one of his cases. He can't get to them all tonight."

"Be sure there's an officer there," Grissom warned. "I'll walk you to your car."

"You think she'd kill me right here in the parking lot?" Sara asked, unbelieving. The realization that the Angel of Death might actually be that bold, that crazy, seized her attention, diverting her from wondering why Grissom hadn't argued against her going.

"I don't want to take that chance."

"I guess I'm lucky I have Shadow Man to protect me," she teased.

"Yeah, right. A superhero more conspicuous in his absence than in his presence."

"I was impaired when I said that," Sara demurred.

"The truth will out, as they say. Impairment often helps that along," Grissom argued.

"I also thought the lights in the lab were purposefully harassing me, that my arms were made of rubber and could stretch several feet, and that I stored light energy to convert to my aura," Sara countered with a silly grin. "Actually, I'm not convinced that last one is wrong," she laughed. 

Three cats meowed in protest as their sleep was disturbed when their owner stretched slowly as she got out of bed. The Bastard and the Whore would still be at work this early in the morning, so the Angel of Death took her time in her preparations.

She needed to teach both of them a lesson. The Bastard had lied to her – used her and humiliated her. How could her sweet Gil turn out to be so evil?

_Did I misread Gil so badly? Is he really that bad, or has it been the influence of the Whore? That's the answer. She's as evil as the day is long. _

_Maybe he still cares. Maybe she has him twisted. He is a man after all; you can't expect them to think clearly around sluts._

The Angel of Death nodded resolutely as she ran her tub. She needed to talk to Gil in private, away from the influence of the Whore. She could give him one more chance to redeem himself. If she could purge the Whore's influence, then he could be saved.

_If not, the Bastard will join his Whore in suffering._

While the tub filled, she went to the kitchen. Opening a drawer, she took out her butcher knife, turning the gleaming blade over and over. It was as sharp as a scalpel. She was always meticulous in her care of her tools. 

_For you, though, I'll make sure the blade is dull. I want you to feel every bit of pain you've caused me._

TO BE CONTINUED ...


	11. Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned

**Chapter 11 – Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned**

It was a few hours too early to be leaving work for the day, but Grissom felt that he had to take advantage of Sara being diverted by Nick's case. He called Brass and told him that he'd be leaving in a few minutes, his first stop being Wal-Mart and then the grocery store, since they were both open 24 hours.

By then, if she hadn't contacted him, other places should be open. He'd contact Brass with an updated itinerary, if need be. He knew that Sara would call him when shift was over, and he spent the time driving to Wal-Mart trying vainly to think of an excuse for not being at the lab or at home.

Grissom grabbed a shopping cart and began a leisurely stroll through the discount store. Normally, he'd rather take a beating than go there. Most of the time, it was crowded and he could rarely find a salesperson if he had a question. 

Even when he went in the middle of the night, it was frustrating because there were even fewer people working the floor, and often only one check-out open.

But he hadn't come with any agenda other than luring a killer out into the open, so the inevitable delays were welcomed rather than dreaded. He went first to the toiletries section, spending an inordinate amount of time choosing a shampoo. 

While he was there, he picked up a bottle of shampoo and creme rinse for Sara, recognizing the brand she used once he saw it.

Despite the nervousness of his task, it gave him a warm feeling to be buying household items specifically for Sara. It reminded him that she was really with him, and it gave their relationship a feeling of permanence.

_But why? Why is she there? She says she loves me. She acts like she really does. But why? No one else ever has, not for long anyway. _

Could she really be using me? No! I've known her for years – she's not like that. Even if I offered to help her, she'd turn me down flat. She'd rather do it all on her own.

School-girl crush on an authority figure? That hardly seems like her, either. She's too smart, too grounded for something like that. Authority and power annoy her, they don't attract her.

I can't for the life of me figure out what it is that she sees in me, what she wants from me. If I knew, I'd give it to her, just to keep her with me.

Grissom moved to the men's section, tossing new socks, boxers and undershirts into the cart. He hadn't expected anyone to see the ones he had, and they were starting to get threadbare. Though he knew that Sara wouldn't judge him on such things, it was embarrassing nonetheless.

He casually glanced around him, as though he were deciding where to go next, taking in every person within sight. If Brass had people tailing him, they were good. He couldn't pick them out. For a brief moment, Grissom feared that he was out in the open alone, with no back-up, but he knew Brass wouldn't allow that.

_What does an obsessed maniac look like? It could be that woman over there – the one stacking the colas that are on sale into her basket. That reminds me, I should get some juice for Sara._

Is it that woman in the check-out line now? She could take her things to her car and ambush me outside.

Maybe she never came in. She knows where I parked and that I have to come out the same way I came in. She didn't have to follow me in here at all.

Grissom went to the check-out counter, purposefully being even more remote than usual to the cashier. The last thing he wanted to do was endanger her. If his stalker thought he was flirting with the girl, she could be the next set of body parts to arrive at his lab.

Competing emotions of disappointment and relief warred in him as he loaded his purchases unmolested into his car. He tried to appear nonchalant as he glanced around the parking lot as he started his car. Even at that hour in the morning, there were about 50 cars there. With the ubiquitous tinted windows, Grissom couldn't tell in the darkness if any of the vehicles was occupied.

Brass had two teams working the decoy operation. The first team had set up at Wal-Mart before Grissom arrived. The second team was already in place at the grocery store, with the first team proceeding to the third stop, the dry cleaners, as soon as Grissom left Wal-Mart. Brass was the only cop following Grissom's car, to ensure he wasn't ambushed en route.

The communications were done by cell phone rather than police radio, to prevent being overheard. The technology to eavesdrop on cell phones would typically be out of the typical person's reach, but any one could buy a police scanner. 

Though operations such as this weren't conducted on the usual police bands, it was still too easy for them to be overheard by anyone with a ham radio. Considering how little time he had to prepare, Brass had taken every precaution he could to ensure Grissom's safety.

Grissom pressed the speed dial for Brass. "Am I being paranoid, or is there a silver SUV following me?"

"You probably are paranoid, but there is a silver SUV following you," Brass answered.

"Have you run the plates?" Grissom asked.

"Coming through now. The registered owner is one Angela Wyeth."

"She's one of the people who wrote a fan letter," Grissom reminded Jim.

"Yeah, I remember. Looking at her license now. She's, let's see, 38 years old and lives here in town. She's five-foot-five. Her weight's listed as 145 lbs, but considering how women tend to underreport their weight, she's probably closer to 160. Brown hair. Blue eyes. I'm looking at her picture and she looks like your typical librarian."

"Wants and warrants?" Grissom asked hopefully.

"None."

"Nothing you could pull her over for, I suppose," Grissom huffed.

"She's been a model citizen so far. Used her blinkers, hasn't exceeded the speed limit, no broken taillights."

"Figures."

"You still want to go through with this?" Brass asked. "We've got her name now. Maybe we can get to her another way. We can put a tail on her."

"We need to know if she's the one. If she's not, if this is just a coincidence, then we'll be putting all of our resources into the wrong suspect," Grissom said.

"Your call, buddy," Brass exhaled.

"Let's play it out a while," Grissom answered.

He parked at the grocery store a bit away from the other cars, just as he usually would, hoping to avoid the careless dings and scratches that strangers so often inflicted on other cars.

A shopping cart had rolled out of the cart corral into one of the driving lanes, so Grissom adopted it as his own, pushing it noisily across the asphalt and into the store. The cold air hit him as soon as he walked in, and he was glad he was wearing his jacket. It wasn't warm out in the fall desert night, but it was cooler still inside the store.

His first destination was the produce section. He saw no use in not killing two birds with one stone: he was indeed on a decoy operation, but he might as well get some shopping done while he was at it.

He and Sara shared a love of fruit, and he picked up several varieties – enough to fill two fruit bowls that sat on his breakfast counter at home. The thought reminded him of Sara, and for a moment he wanted to leave, to go home to wait for her.

He passed by the meat section with a sigh. She wasn't such a strict vegetarian that she was bothered by watching him eat meat, but the sight and smell of it raw and cooking did bother her, though she never said anything about it. 

He went to the frozen food section, knowing there were several meat items that were already cooked that he could pop into the microwave at work whenever he felt the desire for something more substantial than vegetarian fare. 

He was peering through the glass cases, surprised at the variety, when a woman's voice drew his attention.

"Gil, it's so good to see you again!"

Grissom turned, not recognizing the nondescript woman standing a few feet away, putting a handful of Healthy Choice frozen dinners in her cart. He met several new people every day. They might remember him, but he couldn't remember all of them.

Though he was no politician, he knew that he worked for the community and should be pleasant whenever possible. 

"Hello. It's nice to see you, too. How are you?" 

"I'm fine. Fit as a fiddle, and ready for love, as they say!" she laughed.

He doubted that the Angel of Death would be jealous of this woman, but he didn't want to take any chances. He needed to take his leave of her, seeing that she was the friendly sort who would no doubt stand there talking to him forever, if he'd let her.

"I'm glad to hear you're doing well. If you'll excuse me, I need to finish up and be on my way," he said, pushing his cart down the aisle towards the back of the store.

"Gil, don't be in such a rush! We haven't had a chance to chat," she said, pushing her cart behind him, a wayward wheel clattering with each revolution.

"I'm sorry. I'm in a bit of a hurry. Perhaps some other time," he offered, smiling.

"Don't be silly!" she chirped.

"Really. I need to finish this up and get back to work. But it was nice to see you."

"Your whore can wait."

Grissom froze. His eyes narrowed as he began to tick off Brass's description. Medium height. Stocky, but not heavy. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Then the scent of lilacs hit him. It was her.

"Excuse me? What did you say?"

"Gil, darling, I'm sorry for being so crass, but the Jezebel has you under her spell," she said, moving close to stroke his arm. "I forgive you. It's not your fault. I'll kill her, and you never have to deal with the slut again."

"Who are you? What do you want from me?" Grissom stammered.

"Gil, I'm a patient woman, but this is getting ridiculous. Have you even decided on whether you're going to wear a suit or a tuxedo yet? We need to finalize the arrangements."

"Arrangements for what? My funeral?" he asked, swallowing ineffectively at the lump that was forming in his throat. They were at the rear of the store, behind the endcap display of an aisle. He couldn't see anyone but her, so he could assume that no one could see them either.

The Angel of Death laughed, slapping his arm playfully. "Getting cold feet already?"

"Angela, we need to talk about what you've been doing," Grissom said cautiously.

"Well, right now I'm trying to talk to my fiance without his whore getting in the way. Did you really think I wouldn't find out about her, Gil?"

"It's not like that, Angela," Grissom said, playing along with her delusion. "She works for me. She needed someplace to stay for a little while, so I let her stay in my guest room. She doesn't mean anything to me," Grissom said, hoping to at least divert Angela Wyeth's anger from Sara.

"I can forgive your ... diversion. She used you. But I will not tolerate being lied to! I heard the two of you! I was in the parking lot below your townhouse, Gil, and I could hear you two rutting like animals. Disgusting!" she bellowed, her voice rising in pitch and volume.

"It wasn't us, Angela. There are other townhouses there. Or maybe someone was watching TV or a movie too loud."

"'Oh, God, Grissom!'," she cried out mockingly. "I'm so sure that was on television. Did you really believe the whore? Can't you tell how fake her screams were? She couldn't even force herself to use your given name! Stupid, stupid man. I thought you were different," she hissed angrily.

"Angela, I'm sorry. You're right. I lied. But it's not Sara's fault. I made her do it. You can be mad at me, but don't take it out on her."

"Oh, please. She's a goddamned whore! I sent you the pictures! She throws herself at anything with working equipment. No man would have to force her – she'd be willing."

"Still, you can't kill her. You'll just get me in trouble. And if I'm in trouble, we can't be together. I promise it's over between me and the girl. Let's forget about her," Grissom said, smiling as lovingly as he could muster.

"Of course I can kill her! It's already planned," she said, returning his smile with an equally fake one.

"Please, Angela. Let's just forget about her, about all of them. We're together now. It's time to let go of the past.

Grissom could see Brass approaching from behind her, a handbasket across his arm. He appeared to be looking at the cheeses, moving closer to Angela. 

"Can I ask you something? I know that the first person you killed for me was Charlotte Gibney. Who was the second woman you killed?"

"It was that whore from the pet store."

"Who?"

"That whore, Rachel Henley."

"Rachel? But we only went to dinner once. I didn't even stay; I got called in to work. She wasn't a girlfriend of mine. She was just a nice woman who worked at the pet store where I buy grasshoppers to feed my spiders. Sweetie, you've got to get control over your jealousy," Grissom said as Brass nodded imperceptibly to a young woman who had moved up behind Grissom, appearing to be caught in the choice between butter and margarine.

"Control my jealousy! You've got to learn to control your dick! You're such a vulgar, base man at times. I don't know what I see in you. Sleeping with whores, protecting them, lying to me. Why do I even bother with you? It would be so much simpler to remove you from my life."

The woman behind Grissom looked to Brass, who nodded, and they simultaneously drew their weapons, with the female police officer pushing Grissom down, out of the line of fire.

"Angela Wyeth, you are under arrest," Brass said, inching towards her.

"For what? For protecting what's mine?" she shrieked.

"For suspicion of murder," Brass said, pulling her arms behind her, snapping on handcuffs.

"Did you know about this, Gil?" Angela spat, her pale blue eyes glaring hatefully at him.

"Get her out of here," Grissom said, pushing himself to his feet.

"Should I follow you home, too? Maybe save your ass a second time today? 'Cause you know Sara's going to kill you," Brass chuckled.

"Sara's safe. That's all I care about," Grissom said, relief washing over him like a sudden cloudburst.

* * * * *

Grissom drove back to the lab, surprised that Sara hadn't called him yet, despite it being almost eight in the morning. Shift would be over by the time he slipped down the hall towards his office, hoping to be there when she got back with Nick.

He walked into the darkened room, sitting down heavily in his chair. He was relieved to be sure, but he'd never been so emotionally exhausted in his life. 

_I better start thinking about how to tell Sara about all of this._

"Tired?"

Sara's voice slit the darkness, startling him.

"Uh, yeah. A little," he answered, turning on the desk lamp, finding her sitting in a chair partially hidden beside the shelves of his treasures. A fitting place for her, he thought.

Sara nodded, but he could tell by her lack of expression that she was waiting on him to say something.

"How long have you been waiting?" he asked, sighing guiltily.

"An hour," she answered coolly.

"We got her," Grissom said, smiling hopefully.

"We who? Got who?"

"Brass, the police. Got the Angel of Death. Her name's Angela Wyeth. She wrote one of the letters," he answered, his apprehension slicing his sentences into staccato bursts.

"And how were you involved?" she asked.

"She approached me," he answered cagily.

"Where? A crime scene?"

"No. At the grocery store," he answered.

"You just so happened to go to the grocery store during work. She approached you there. The police also just so happened to be at the same grocery store. Wow, it's really the day for coincidences, isn't it?"

"It wasn't exactly a coincidence," Grissom admitted lowly.

"You were a decoy, weren't you?" she asked, dumbfounded.

"Yes. But I was never in any danger. Brass had two teams covering me. He had my back the whole time," Grissom said confidently.

"Just like I had half the FBI covering me when you went ballistic over me being a decoy? What's the difference here? Is it because you're a man and I'm a woman? Because, if that's it, I'm going to be really disappointed in you, Grissom."

"I didn't want anything to happen to you then, and I didn't want anything to happen to you now," Grissom shrugged.

"You know, you've got some real issues with double-standards that you need to work through," Sara said. "Fortunately, you'll have a while to think about it uninterrupted," she said, picking up her purse to leave.

"Sara?" he called, willing her to stop. Grissom stood and walked over to gingerly grasp her arm, feeling her muscle flex angrily where he touched her.

"You know what really pisses me off about this? Yeah, I would have been pissed anyway that you were going to do just what you didn't want me to do. But what really gets me is that you didn't trust me enough to tell me."

"It's not about trust," he said quickly.

"You hid it from me. Just like you've been hiding from me all along. I thought we were getting past all of that."

"We are. I'm trying. God, Sara, you have no idea how hard I'm trying," he said, almost desperately. "I can't change overnight. I'm almost 50 years old."

"Yeah, so you're old enough to know better," she countered.

"Maybe too old to change," he said sadly.

"I'm not asking you to change, Grissom," she said more gently. "I'm not asking you to tear down your walls and expose yourself to the world. Just let me inside. Trust me."

"I was afraid that you'd try to stop me."

"I would have. Tried, that is. But I would have been about as successful as you were, and for the same reason: because you knew you had to try."

"So you understand why I had to do it?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course I understand why you had to do it. Been there, done that. I'm glad it worked out better for you than it did for me. But that doesn't change the fact that you didn't tell me."

"Wait a minute," Grissom said, a remembrance dawning on him. "You didn't tell me about you being a decoy, either! I found out from Brass. You went behind my back, too!"

"You would remember that," Sara huffed. "But you got mad at me, so you can't stop me from getting mad at you. Fair's fair."

"So, are we even?" Grissom asked, smiling.

"We're even, but I'm still not coming home with you," she said.

"Why not?" he asked, deflated.

"Because you need to get some rest. You're grumpy and need some sleep," she answered, smiling.

"I sleep better when you're there," he said, pulling her towards him.

"No public displays of affection," she chided, pulling away playfully.

"How about a private display of affection?" he asked, a lop-sided grin pulling his face to one side.

* * * * *

The Angel of Death scowled at the cameraman. He hadn't even let her adjust her hair before taking her mug shots. What kind of place was this? Didn't anyone know how to treat a lady?

_Gil certainly didn't. He betrayed me. Betrayed me for a common trollop. Oh, this was an injustice that wouldn't go unpunished._

Punishment! Ha! 

They thought she needed to be locked up with the common trash, as if she had committed some sort of crime. 

_Since when was it a crime to love someone? To protect him? They think they can lock me away for this?_

She sniffed as she thought of her cats. Would anyone take care of them? They'd probably go to the animal shelter. At best, they'd be separated. They'd never been apart since they were kittens. At worst, they would be put down.

_NO!_

She refused to consider that possibility. Her precious babies would be fine. It would be the first thing she made sure of when she talked to her attorney. She had money in the bank. The house was paid for. It shouldn't be hard to find someone to feed them for her.

No, it would be easy to take care of her pets.

The Whore and the Bastard were another story. She had to be careful. They thought she was a fool that they could play this way. She was no one's fool! 

_Oh, Gil. You have no idea what you've set yourself up for. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and hell hath never seen a woman like me. I'll make both of your lives living hells._

She smiled sweetly at the matron who came to lead her to the strip search. You caught more flies with honey, after all.

_No, you haven't seen the last of me, Gil Grissom. Not by a long shot._

TO BE CONTINUED ...


	12. All Good Things Must Come to an End

Chapter 12 – All Good Things Must Come to an End 

"Grissom," he practically barked, making Sara giggle under him. He'd tried to ignore the phone, to let it go to the message machine, but then his cell phone took up the tune as well. The competing rings were distracting enough to interrupt even the most ardent lovemaking.

"Whatcha doin'? Never mind, don't answer that," Brass said, hearing Grissom trying to catch his breath.

"Did you need something?" Grissom growled, his annoyance only fed by Sara's mirth.

"Absolutely. But that's not why I called. Just thought you'd like to know that the warrant came through. In exactly 30 minutes I'm going to Angela Wyeth's house. Now, if you can finish what you're doing and get here in 30 minutes, you're welcome to _go_ along. Notice I didn't say 'come'," Brass said, laughing.

"We'll be there," Grissom said acidly.

"We? You mean there's somebody there with you?" Brass quipped. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"Goodbye, Jim," Grissom snapped, tossing the phone onto the nightstand.

"That wasn't obvious," Sara laughed.

"His timing is impeccable. I swear sometimes that he must have me bugged. Every date I've ever been on, he's interrupted. I could deal with that. But this ..." he said, rolling over to his side to take his weight off of her.

"How long do we have?" Sara asked suggestively, an eyebrow raised.

"Only 30 minutes, and we still have to get cleaned up," he sighed, rolling out of bed.

"We could take a shower together and save time," she laughed.

"We've already established that taking a shower together does _not_ save time!"

"It doesn't necessarily save shower time for two people, but we've demonstrated that it saves time if you want to have sex and also need to take a shower. We could kill two birds with one stone. Unless, of course, you don't want to finish what you started."

Grissom turned on the water to warm it, and they kissed until the room was filled with steam, the condensation joining with their own sweat to coat their bodies. He stepped into the shower and held Sara's hand as she followed him in.

Sara squirted the liquid soap into her hand, running her hands over his chest and shoulders erotically, then reaching around to go down his back as he pulled her into another impassioned kiss as her hands ventured further south. 

Pulling back, he took a handful of the soap and embarked on a languid journey beginning at her neck and working his way down, raising goose bumps on her, despite the warmth of the room, the water, her blood, and his hands.

Turning her around slowly, he began to soap her back, drawing slow circles. She giggled slightly as his hands reached her sides, but he didn't linger as he slid them around to her front, pulling her into his body.

Sara leaned her head back against his shoulder as he nuzzled her neck from behind, his slick hands exploring all he could reach. His touch was as light as a feather, with the soap removing even the slightest friction.

The feel of her, her closeness, and the slick foam between them set Grissom on fire, the evidence of his desire seeming to seek her of its own accord. Setting a hand against the shower wall for support, Sara leaned over slightly, her invitation clear to him.

He'd never made love to her without seeing her face. He loved to watch her reactions; it still amazed him that he could arouse her at all, much less to the heights she seemed to reach.

But what he lost in sight he gained in touch, now able to comfortably reach around her to stroke her more erogenous areas as he crossed the threshold. It didn't take long for them to catch up to where they had left off when Brass called.

Grissom's hand joined Sara's on the wall, kissing up next to it, as their ardor began to demand more support and balance, and less foreplay. He still had a free hand to roam her body, and she still had a free hand to help things along. 

The warm water pelted his back, adding fuel to the flames of passion that swirled around and between them. His hand dropped to her waist to pull her repeatedly into him, as she began to cry out, his only intent to answer her demands before making his own of her.

Feeling her undulating around him, he held back no longer, pulling her forcefully back as he growled his release, leaning in close to her back as they slowed, trailing kisses up to her neck and ear. 

He took the lobe in between his lips for a moment; letting it slide slowly and sensuously out. He softly licked the edge of her ear and she giggled lightly at the tickle. 

"I love you," he whispered.

* * * * *

"Twenty-five minutes," Brass said, grinning at his watch as Gil and Sara approached him. "I'm impressed."

"Grow up, Brass," Sara quipped.

"A little late for that," he answered. "Okay, on to business. We have a warrant for her house and her SUV, which is being towed here as we speak."

"Good. We'll get to it tonight. Where are we going?" Grissom asked.

Brass handed him a slip with the address and nearest cross-street on it, and they split up, he in his unmarked car, Gil and Sara in one of the new Denalis. 

"How come they can afford new SUVs, but we can't get a new GC-mass spec?" Sara asked, shaking her head.

"Don't get me started," Grissom warned.

"Yeah, I've already seen today what happens once you get started on something. You just won't quit until you're finished," she teased.

"I didn't hear any complaints," he returned, keeping his eyes on the road.

"I don't have any complaints."

"That's good to hear," he nodded, turning briefly to smile at her. 

The small house looked anything but like the home of a vicious, crazed serial killer. Both the house and the yard were well-maintained, with a garden surrounding the perimeter of the house, extending along both sides of the walkway to the front door.

The ground looked recently worked, with hardy pansies in a variety of vivid colors surrounding the base of evergreen shrubs that were meticulously trimmed. Not a leaf was out of place. 

The neighborhood was older, with a few run-down rent houses scattered among aging wood-frame houses, some with the original clapboard exterior, some with vinyl siding.

Angela Wyeth's house stood out, being the most conspicuously maintained, the landscaping converting the atmosphere of the house from 'old' to 'quaint'.

"Are you sure we're at the right place?" Sara asked, pulling the slip towards her from where Grissom had laid it on the console.

"There's Brass's car, so I assume so," Grissom said, parking on the street.

The house was decorated with antiques that had obviously been lovingly restored, each stained the same rich mahogany, with a satin finish unmarred by time or misuse.

The walls were decorated primarily by framed needlepoint creations, each with an aphorism, surrounded by borders of flowers. 

A cat lay atop the television, awakened from its nap by the intrusion of the uninvited guests. Its eyes were still droopy from sleep, but followed the criminalists as its tail writhed, occasionally whipping the top of the set.

"She's a cat person?" Sara mused, moving towards the bookshelves. Even a cursory glance revealed that the books had always been treated reverentially, and were placed in alphabetical order by author, a practice that Sara could relate to.

One whole section had photo albums that were numbered. Pulling out the first album and flipping through it, Sara was stunned to see page after page of a slightly younger Grissom at crime scenes.

He was thinner then, his hair less gray, and beardless – looking much like he did when Sara first came to Las Vegas. Forgetting herself, she smiled. 

"What are you looking at?" he asked, coming to stand behind her, peering over her shoulder.

"Her scrapbooks. It looks like she's been a fan for quite some time," Sara said, slowly flipping through the album.

"She has more pictures of me at crime scenes than Public Relations does, certainly more than I do," Grissom said, the eeriness of knowing that he had been watched, unaware, beginning to build in him.

"This is creepy," Sara said, pointing to a particular shot. "I have a picture almost just like this that I made at the scene. I could have been standing right next to her, for all I know."

"You made pictures of me at scenes?" Grissom asked softly in her ear, not wanting to be overheard, even though Brass was not in the room, and was already well aware of their relationship anyhow.

"I'll show you _my_ scrapbook someday," she smiled.

"So I had two women stalking me," he quipped.

"Yeah, but you knew I was after you," she shot back. 

"I wish I had," he whispered in her ear. "I hoped, but I didn't believe."

"Well, believe it," she said, replacing the book. Skipping ahead, she pulled a volume from the middle of the shelf.

"Oh ... my ... God," she said under her breath, turning the pages quickly.

"I'm going to look in the kitchen," Grissom said hoarsely, turning away from the album of pictures of Sara and her co-workers primarily, but a sprinkling of pictures of her and Hank interspersed.

There were several empty slots, and Sara assumed they had held the pictures that had been sent to Grissom. The few 'incriminating' pictures of her and Hank angered her – not only because they were an invasion of her privacy, but because they were out of context, appearing to reveal an intimacy that was unwarranted at the time of the picture.

Sara had never really approved of public displays of affection, and Hank knew it, sometimes teasing her by grabbing her or kissing her suddenly, usually earning a harsh glare or even a slap or punch on the arm. 

She had often chided him for his juvenile behavior, more often than not getting only a silly grin in reply. She wondered how and why she had tolerated it as long as she did.

_Funny, the things you'll put up with when you're lonely. No, not funny – sad._

Putting the album back in its place, she followed the path Grissom had taken, entering the kitchen. It was decorated in old-fashioned kitsch, with copper gelatin molds adorning the walls.

It was immaculate and smelled of disinfectant. A cat was draped lazily on a counter, looking up when she entered, but laying its head down in a moment, its ennui evident.

"Ugh! I don't care how much disinfectant you use, an animal in the kitchen is just disgusting," Sara complained. "Ew! There's cat hair on the counter and on the table. Yuck!"

"They aren't any more filthy or germ-laden than humans," Grissom replied, opening the refrigerator, not surprised to see its contents all labeled and lined up according to its food group or use.

"I wouldn't want a human lying on my food-preparation area, either," she said, opening a door that she found led to the garage. Lawn implements, looking as clean as the day they were purchased, though obviously used, hung from hooks on the walls.

A washer and dryer took up much of one wall of the small garage. Facing them on the other wall was a large chest freezer. Opening it, Sara flinched involuntarily.

"Grissom!" she barked, pushing the heavy door back until it caught on its hinges.

"What?" he asked from the kitchen.

"I found what we're looking for," she said, pulling a bag out of the freezer that contained the front half of a woman's head, the hair matted with blood, ice crystals covering her eyebrows and eyelashes. 

"Rachel," Grissom said sadly.

"Rachel?" Sara asked. "I never met her, either, I guess."

"She worked at the pet store where I buy food for my arachnids. We only went out once," he said distantly, as though he was caught up in a memory.

"When was that?" Sara asked, curious.

"Remember the Hanson case?"

"Yeah."

"The night Brass called me in on it, the night before you joined the case. I was having dinner with her. Or rather, I was about to have dinner. We never got past the drinks."

"Oh," Sara said unemotionally. He had been distant before that case. When he called her in on it, telling her he needed her, it had been a temporary boost to her ego. They had worked alone and closely – at times very close. 

For a few days at least she had thought that he might finally express an interest in seeing her, but it faded away as quickly as it came, leaving her even emptier than before.

Knowing that he had been out with another woman the night before he called her in on the case, especially remembering that he had said that everyone else was busy, seemed to suck the air out of her lungs. She felt foolish for having thought that he called her in because he wanted to be close to her, even if only for a while.

"I'll go check out the rest of the house," she said, her voice failing to hide how dispirited she felt.

"I don't want to do this by myself," he said, reaching out to lightly grab her arm as she passed by him.

"They're your girlfriends. You tag 'em and bag 'em. I need to get out of here," she said, pulling away.

"Sara, they weren't really girlfriends – just a couple of dates. And it was a long time ago. You weren't even here when I dated Charlotte."

"Well, I was here when you dated Rachel."

"You were with Hank at the time," he reminded her.

"God, Grissom! What were we thinking? What were we doing to each other? To ourselves?"

"We were trying to get by, Sara. Or at least I was. Trying to find someone to take my mind off the fact that you wanted someone else more than you wanted me," he answered.

"That wasn't a fact. That's your interpretation. You weren't interested," she said.

"That's your interpretation," he retorted.

They stood motionless and mute next to the open freezer, its icy steam rolling up over the top and falling towards the floor, adding a physical chill to the emotional chill in the room.

The anger in their eyes gave way to hurt, and hurt gave way to resignation. They couldn't change the past, but Angela Wyeth had decreed that they would have to relive it.

Sara reached out, setting a palm against the warmth of his beard. Grissom pressed slightly against her hand, closing his eyes and breathing out some of the tension that had built in him.

"I'll help," she said, opening her kit to begin making out the case identifiers for the bags.

"Thank you," Grissom said softly, before taking the digital camera from his pocket to start making the photographs that would establish the location of the body parts in her garage.

"So we've got her," Brass said, leaning against the doorframe. He'd started into the garage a few minutes ago, but had stopped just inside the kitchen, knowing that they needed a moment to finish the conversation he'd accidentally overheard.

"So it would appear," Grissom said, taking out each bag and handing it to Sara to set down on the plastic sheeting she'd opened up on the garage floor. She set the case identifier and a photograph ruler down next to each bag, moving it aside as Grissom made the photographs.

"It's over. You're safe now," Brass said to Sara, smiling at her paternally.

"Assuming she stays in jail," Sara answered.

"She'll probably be arraigned tomorrow. Considering all the evidence, there's no way a judge would let her out on bail," Grissom opined.

"It may never get that far. A court-appointed psychiatrist is evaluating her today. If her attorney's any good, he'll plead insanity."

"But she's not insane," Grissom argued. "She's a sociopath, not a psychopath. She knows the difference between right and wrong. She just doesn't care."

"Hey, I'm just telling you what the assistant DA told me," Brass said, his hands held up in surrender.

* * * * *

"We managed to dodge a bullet on this one," Sheriff Atwater said, glaring uncomfortably at Gil and Sara as they sat opposite him in his office. 

"How so?" Grissom asked.

"The DA has decided to accept a plea bargain based on Angela Wyeth's psych eval. She'll be remanded to an institution for the criminally insane."

"Why? He had enough evidence to nail her for two murders!" Sara snapped.

"He saw no reason to make a public spectacle of this office, and I'm frankly relieved," Atwater said, leaning back in his chair, pushing his fingers together into a steeple.

"What does he care how our department looks? It would have been quite a feather in his cap, politically," Grissom asked, suspicious.

"Let's just say that you two have a guardian angel, you'll pardon the pun. Considerable pressure was brought to bear on the DA's office to make this go away as quickly and as quietly as possible."

"Who would do that?" Grissom asked, mystified.

"Someone very powerful. I don't know what his connection is to you two, but he made it very clear that there would be consequences if he were disappointed, and a reward if he were pleased."

"A reward?" Sara asked.

"A grant. He's donating $250,000 to upgrade the lab equipment. Get together with Carvallo to let him know your priorities," Atwater said, standing to dismiss them.

"You're done with us?" Grissom asked, incredulous that they hadn't received so much as a reprimand, much less the punitive measures he'd expected.

"Yes. As a condition of this grant, I'm limited on what I can say. But let me be clear that I don't want to have to deal with any personal issues."

"Understood," Grissom said, opening the door.

"What was that all about?" Sara asked, once they were clear of the Sheriff's office.

"I don't know," Grissom said, befuddled. "Who's this guardian angel?" he asked rhetorically.

* * * * *

"Thank you, Sam," Catherine said sincerely, sitting on the comfortable sofa in his office, a Screwdriver sitting on a coaster, the glass's sweat starting to roll down the sides.

"Any time, Mugs," he said, smiling. "Now, are you going to hold up your end of the bargain?"

"I'm a woman of my word. I have the weekend after next off. We'll come out on Saturday, if that suits you," she said.

"Perfect. I'll have a big country breakfast waiting on you. We can go riding. The trees along the trail are starting to turn their fall colors. It'll be a beautiful ride."

"Sounds nice, Sam," Catherine said, though still uncomfortable that she was unable to excise her father from her life. 

"I've done things I'm not proud of, Mugs, but one thing I never regretted was you. I'm very proud of what you've done with your life, and how you're raising Lindsey, despite all the problems you've had."

"She doesn't know, Sam. She has no idea you're my father. I'd like to keep it that way."

"Would it be so bad?" he asked, smiling, yet with sadness in his eyes.

"I don't want her to know that her grandfather is a killer, and that one uncle is a dead dope addict and the other is in prison for murdering him. It's not a family line to be proud of."

"She'll find out sooner or later, and she'll know you lied to her," Sam warned.

"If she asks, I'll tell her the truth. But until then, you're just an old friend of the family."

"One day, maybe sooner than I'd like, this will all be yours and hers," he said, opening his arms expansively.

"And what would we do with a casino?" Catherine asked, shaking her head.

"Hire someone to run it. You know the good managers. You'll never have to worry about money again. Hell, you wouldn't have to worry about it now if you weren't so damned stubborn!"

"I come by it honestly," she said, raising an eyebrow at him.

"I've made my mistakes, I'll grant you. But I'm trying to make it up to you, sugar. Let an old man die in peace."

"You'll never die. You'll pay off St. Peter first," Catherine quipped.

"No. I've learned that there are some things money can't buy," Sam Braun said, smiling wistfully at his daughter.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you all along," Catherine rejoined.

"Well, I've got to get back to work," Braun said, rising. "But I'm glad I could help out your friends. And I look forward to you and Lindsey coming to see me."

"Bye, Sam," Catherine said, feeling torn between kissing him on the cheek as she'd done hundreds of times, and turning on her heel to leave without acknowledging the closeness they used to share.

"Bye, Mugs," he said, holding the door for her. "I love you."

Catherine froze at the door for a moment, ensnared by three simple words. Though she had to admit that she felt the same despite everything, she couldn't bring herself to say it, turning instead to leave her father standing alone in his office.

* * * * * 

"I love you," Sara said, her finger tracing Gil's lips, then lightly caressing the skin between them and his beard.

"Why?" he asked, squinting at her slightly, his lips pursing in contemplation.

"Why does anyone love anyone?" she asked, shrugging lightly in his arms. 

"If you figure that one out, you could write a best-seller and make a fortune," Grissom answered.

"I love you because you're you," she said, answering as best she could.

"What do I need to change to keep you from leaving me?" he asked seriously, his voice wavering slightly at the last two words.

"Nothing. You don't need to change anything for me. I fell in love with you just the way you are. All I ask is that you try to trust me. I know it's hard for you. I really do."

"I trust you more than I trust anyone else," he said in his defense.

"That's not saying much," Sara laughed.

"I've been trusting you with my life for several years."

"We all have to trust each other with our lives. It's part of the job," she argued gently.

"I'm trusting you with my heart. Does that count?" he asked.

"Yes, that counts," she said, leaning over him for a kiss. She began to rise, but he pulled her back down, rolling them over in the bed so that he was leaning over her instead, his lips still entangled with hers.

"I still can't believe you're really here," he said, running his hand down from her face, over her breast, and down her body to her thigh and back up.

"Every time I go to sleep, I'm afraid I'm going to wake up alone, that it was all just a dream, like the dreams I've been having for years. I would be so happy, until I woke up. It was hard to get through the day, seeing you, knowing that my reality was so different from my dreams."

"Me, too," she said simply, reaching up to run her fingers down his beard until her thumb reached his mouth, its caress cut short when he kissed it and pulled it into his lips.

"You make me feel young again," he said raggedly, dipping down time and again to taste her face and her neck, before trailing kisses down her body.

"You make me feel alive again," she returned, reaching out to run her fingers through the curls of his head as he gently pressed against the inside of her thighs, opening her up to the journey of his lips and tongue.

* * * * *

Angela Wyeth stared around the common room, noting the behavior of each of the other "guests" the facility housed. Degenerates – the whole lot of them! It was galling to be forced to share their company, but it was all a means to an end.

_You have to take the bitter with the sweet. And revenge is sweet._

They thought she was delusional. The idea was preposterous, of course, but it was also their undoing. They had wanted to try her for murder – as if killing those sluts was a crime. But knowing how evil the Whore was, she didn't put it above her to plant evidence that could convict her. 

_Especially now that the Bastard had joined in the charade. Oh, he had deceived me, but he couldn't fool me. I know what you are now, Gil Grissom. I thought I was saving you, when in fact you were in league with the Whore to trap me._

Instead of taking that chance, she agreed to plead to an insanity defense. Insane! Wyeth kept her anger in check. This wasn't the time nor the place to vent. She had an image to maintain. 

If they wanted her to be delusional, she'd be delusional. It was so easy to give the answers necessary to the psychiatrists. They were so transparent. The deluded heard things, saw things that didn't exist. So she told them all about the plans she and Gil had made for their honeymoon to Jamaica, the number of children they wanted, who they would be named after.

It was all nonsense, of course. They had never actually planned that far ahead, and they had planned on saving money by having their honeymoon in Las Vegas.

_Except you were using me all along, weren't you, Bastard! I can't believe I fell for your scheme – I was blinded by love. Never again. You made a mistake by making me your enemy._

_You and your whore can go on fornicating like animals, and forget all about me. Out of sight, out of mind. But I'll never forget. Never._

None of them could believe she had actually dispatched the two whores. That wasn't surprising; people were always underestimating her. They thought she was too delicate to take on, let alone triumph, over such evil.

But triumph she had, and triumph she would. 

_You can lock me away, but you can't defeat me. I'm too smart for you. I can turn your games against you. Ha! Me, insane? Never! The very idea is silly._

Wyeth began a slow, steady rocking in her chair. She wasn't sure if it was a sign of delusional behavior, but it hadn't raised any alarms among the staff. So, every day, she sat in the hideous common room, watching the drivel that passed for news on the television set.

It was a waste really, but it gave her what she needed: a time reference. With it, she was able to deduce the schedule of the facility. Every day, about an hour before her medication was due, she started the gentle rocking. After "taking" her medication, she'd wait about 20 minutes before she slowed her rocking, finally ending it a few minutes later.

So far, so good. She stared at the television intently, using the clock on the bottom of the screen to verify her observations: how long it took each orderly to pass out pills, how soon to the next meal, how long before they were sent back to their rooms.

She smiled kindly at the orderly who eventually brought her daily medication, chatting amiably as she took the paper cup of pills and glass of water. Flashing him a polite smile, she daintily removed her chewing gum before downing the pills, finishing off the glass of water for good measure.

Once the orderly was out of sight, she'd put the gum back in her mouth. It was a vile habit that reminded her of cows chewing their cud, but one that she forced herself to endure. After she had the gum loosened again, she used her tongue to work the pills into the rubbery material.

Accomplishing her mission, she worked the drug-infested gum back under her tongue, continuing to work her jaws as if she was still chewing the substance. When she had her bathroom break, she would flush the entire thing away.

In 45 minutes, lunch would be brought in. As she crossed the common room, the Angel of Death sat in a different chair. Before every meal, she changed positions to get another view of the doorway. So far, she'd observed that the hallways had too many locked doorways. A direct escape didn't seem possible.

Still, when they took her to "therapy" after lunch, she counted out the orderly's paces between all the different hallways, creating a mental map of the facility. 

Each day, she was wheeled into a room to talk to an overworked psychologist. So far, she evaded answering his questions, seeing what angle he was taking. Soon, she'd have enough information to begin testing answers.

It would take time, but she'd soon be able to convince them that Angela Wyeth was insane.

_I know where you live, Bastard. You and the Whore will die for this. I'll make each of you watch the other's agony for days. _

Smiling slyly, the Angel of Death began to slow her rocking down, keeping a silent count to time her reactions. She could beat them at this game. 

They planned on locking her away, going on with their shallow existences as if she didn't exist.

_Remember one thing, Bastard: The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry._

THE END


End file.
